THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


POETS 


NEW    HAMPSHIRE, 


SPECIMEN    POEMS    OF    THREE    HUNDRED    POETS    OF    THE 
GRANITE    STATE,    WITH   BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTES. 


COMPILED  BT 

BELA  CHAPIK. 


CLAREMONT,  N.  H., 
CHARLES  H.  ADAMS,  PUBLISHER, 

1883. 


Knteral  according  to  act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1882,  by 

CHARLES   H.    ADAMS, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


PRINTED  AND  BOUND  BY 
THE  CLAREMONT  MANUFACTURING  CO. 


ps 

5A6 


TO 

HIS  EXCELLENCY 

THE  HONORABLE  CHARLES  HENRY  BELL, 

GOVERNOR  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS 

INSCRIBED 
BY  THE   COMPILER. 


759749 


PREFACE. 


A  writer  in  the  North  American  Review,  some  sixty  j'ears  ago, 
marvelled  that  a  State  so  rich  in  beautiful  and  sublime  scenery 
as  New  Hampshire  had  given  no  considerable  indication  of  po 
etic  talent.  That  the  muses  have  dwelt  among  our  mountains, 
lakes  and  rivers,  and  that  our  State  literature  is  by  no  means 
meagre  in  poetry,  a  reference  to  the  following  pages  will 
afford  convincing  proof. 

The  task  of  collecting  specimen  poems  and  preparing  bio 
graphical  notices  of  the  New  Hampshire  poets  was  undertaken 
in  the  autumn  of  1881,  and  the  result  is  here  laid  before  the 
public.  The  design  was  not  altogether  unprecedented,  as  vari 
ous  collections  of  poetry,  the  productions  of  poets  of  other  States, 
have  already  appeared.  Such  books  have  generally  been  com 
piled  without  chronological  order  and  also  without  biographical 
notes. 

This  volume  includes  with  native  poets  those  who  have  made 
their  permanent  home  in  this  State.  There  are,  however,  ex 
ceptions  to  the  rule  in  the  case  of  two  or  three  who  have  for 
quite  a  number  of  years  during  the  summer  and  autumn  seasons 
resided  among  our  rock}T  hills  and  quiet  retreats,  and  who,  while 
here,  devoted  much  of  their  time  to  literary  work. 

It  has  been  no  easy  thing  to  determine  who,  upon  the  score  of 
merit,  were  entitled  to  a  representation.  Their  names  are  not 
a  few  concerning  which  there  could  be  no  question.  In  making 
selections  the  object  has  been  to  present  some  of  the  best  poems 
of  each  poet,  although  in  many  instances  their  poems  ma}*  be 
well  known  to  the  reader.  The  biographical  notes  are  necessa 
rily  brief  and  serve  but  to  give  statistics  of  the  writers  and  to 
introduce  them  to  the  reader.  It  is  believed  that  no  poet  has 


vi  PEE  FACE. 

been  admitted  to  the  pages  of  this  volume  who  has  not  a  good  claim 
to  be  there.  It  is  not  pretended  that  all  the  verse  is  of  the  first 
order,  but  most  of  it  is  of  real  excellence  and  of  general  interest. 

While  the  names  of  many  of  the  poets  will  be  recognized  by 
the  reader  as  familiar  acquaintances,  there  are  others  with  whom 
the  public  has  but  a  slight  acquaintance  ;  and  many  of  the  poems 
here  given  have  never  before  appeared  in  print,  and  several  of 
merit  have  been  written  expressly  for  this  volume. 

To  the  poets  who  have  so  kindly  furnished  their  elegant  vol 
umes,  or  have  placed  at  his  disposal  their  manuscripts  and  cop 
ies  of  poems  cut  from  magazines  and  newspapers,  the  compiler 
is  under  great  obligations.  May  their  favors  be  doubly  repaid, 
and  may  they  in  return  become  more  widely  known  and  appre 
ciated. 

To  his  many  friends  to  whom  the  compiler  is  indebted  for  nec 
essary  information  he  desires  to  tender  his  sincere  and  grateful 
thanks.  Especially  is  he  indebted  to  men  who  are  or  have  been, 
most  of  them,  connected  with  the  newspaper  press ;  among 
whom  may  be  mentioned,  WILLIAM  H.  HACKETT,  LEWIS  W. 
BREWSTEH  and  ALBERT  LAIGHTON,  Esqs.,  of  Portsmouth  ;  the 
venerable  GEORGE  WADLEIGH,  Esq.,  of  Dover;  EDWARD  D. 
BOYLSTON,  Esq.,  of  Amherst,  who  lent  a  helping  hand  in  many 
ways ;  JOSIAII  M.  FLETCHER,  Esq.,  of  Nashua ;  HENRY  W. 
HEKRICK,  Esq.,  of  Manchester;  Hon.  HENRY  P.  ROLFE,  JAMES 
().  ADAMS  and  JOHN  N.  MCCLINTOCK,  Esqs.,  of  Concord;  H. 
L.  INMAN,  Esq.,  of  Keene ;  JOSEPH  W.  PARMELEE,  Esq.,  of 
Newport;  BENJAMIN  P.  SHILLABER,  Esq.,  of  Chelsea,  Mass., 
Rev.  SILVANUS  HAYWARD,  of  Globe  Village,  Mass.,  and  FRED- 
n:ic  A.  MOORE,  Esq.,  of  Washington,  D.  C. 

The  work  is  now  done,  and,  despite  the  labor  and  care  it  has 
caused  the  compiler,  he  leaves  it  with  a  sentiment  of  regret.  It 
has  been  a  labor  of  love  and  pleasantness  throughout,  and  he 
leaves  it  like  one  who  goes  from  the  place  where  loved  compan 
ions  surround  the  festive  board,  where  cheering  converse  has 
long  delighted  and  enlivened.  Thus  fondly  lingering  he  bids 
adieu  to  THE  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


CONTENTS. 


SAMUEL  HAVEN. 

The  Praise  of  Angels 1 

On  Resignation  and  Hope  in  God  un 
der  troubles,  2 

JEREMY  BELKNAP. 

Prudence, 2 

Reanimation 3 

Christ's  Commission  to  preach  the 

Gospel, 4 

The  God  of  Nature, 4 

Obedience  to  God  our  Father 5 

Marriage 

Lines, 6 

JONATHAN  MITCHEL  SEWALL. 

The  Seasons, 7 

Anniversary  Song, 8 

Paraphrase  of  the  last  Chapter  of 

Ecclesiastes, 9 

THOMAS  BALDWIN. 

The  Union  of  the  Saints,  10 

ROBERT  DINSMOOR, 

The  Poet's  Farewell  to  the  Muses,..    11 

SARAH  PORTER. 

The  Royal  Infant, 14 

DAVID  EVERETT. 

An  Ode 16 

Extract  from  a  Valedictory  Poem, . .    16 
Lines 17 

THOMAS  GREEN  FESSENDEN. 

Flattery 18 

The  Course  of  Culture 18 

The  Independent  Farmer 20 

The  Farmer 20 

HOSEA  BALLOU. 
Blessings     of     Christ's     Universal 

Reign, 21 

God  is  Love, 22 

PHILIP  CARRIGAN. 
Lafayette's  Return 22 

WILLIAM    MERCHANT    RICHARD 
SON. 

The  River  Merrimack 24 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

Lines  to  a  Departed  Son, 26 

From  "Human  Redemption," 27 

The  Memory  of  the  Heart, .  * 28 

Winter,   28 

Lines  written  in  an  Album 778 


ANDREW  WALLACE. 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness, 29 

Hymn  of  Thanksgiving  for  Recov 
ery  from  Sickness, 30 

NATHANIEL  HAZELTINE  CARTER. 

Hymn  for  Christmas, 31 

To  mv  Native  Stream,   32 

The  Closing  Scene— A  Burial  at  Sea,  33 
CHARLES  BURROUGHS. 

Mount  Washington, 34 

A  Morning  Prayer,   35 

WILLIAM  PLUMER. 

TheOcean 36 

The  White  Hills 37 

The  Ancestral  Seat 38 

Love 39 

The  Wedding 40 

WeddedLove 40 

The  Father, 41 

Children, 42 

Flowers 42 

Patriotism, 43 

SARAH  WHITE  LIVERMORE. 

The  Burdock 43 

JOHN  FARMER. 

Lines, 44 

Epitaph  for  a  Friend 45 

ELISHA  SNELL  FISH. 

Ambition, 45 

Stanzas  suggested  by  the  opening  of 

China  to  Gospel  Influences 40 

Inferences  and  reflections,  etc 47 

NATHANIEL  APPLETON  HAVEN. 

Autumn 4!) 

Prayer 49 

Hymn  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1813,.  00 

AMOS  ANDREW  PARKER. 

The  Parting  Hour, 51 

Jilted 52 

CARLOS  WILCOX. 

Active  Christian  Benevolence 53 

Live  for  Eternity, 55 

Sunset  in  September 5(5 

Spring  in  New  England 57 

SARAH  JOSEPHA  HALE. 
The  Rose-Tree  at  the  Birth-place  of 

Washington 60 

I  Sing  to  him 61 

TheLightof  Home, 62 

The  Silk-worm 63 


VIII 


CONTENTS. 


WILLIAM  BINGHAM  TAPPAN. 

Tin- White  Mountains 64 

Tlu-n-  i-  :in  ll.iur  »f  Peaceful  Heat,  04 
The  Old    North   Burial  Ground  IB 

Portsmouth, «» 

GEORGE  KENT. 
Thoughts  at   the   base  of  Niagara 

Kills « 

"Hope  on— Hope  ever," « 

A  Modest  Claim £ 

{jfa 7 

In  Memory  of  President  Garfleld,...  71 

ELIZA  O.  SHORES. 

On  visiting  the  Scenes  of  early  Ufa,  72 

ELIZA  B.  THORNTON. 

The  Sumac  Tree 7 

n.x-him 73 

ANNA  MARIA  WELLS. 

Ascutney 74 

1 1. \NIEL  DANA  TAPPAN. 

Hymn 75 

Hymn  to  Jesus, <5 

Hymn  to  the  Redeemer, 7 

Atild  Lang  Rvne 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims 77 

I .  H  N  A  HASTINGS  SILVER. 

Christmas,  78 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 79 

Lines ••••  79 

Nature, 79 

Memory 80 

The  Midnight  Knell 80 

SARAH  SMITH. 

The  White  Clover, 81 

THOMAS  COGSWELL  UPHAM. 

The  Spiritual  Temple 83 

Song  of  the  Pilgrims 83 

The  Inward  Christ 83 

The  Living  Fountain, 83 

The  Greatness  of  Love, 84 

Silence  under  Trials, 84 

OLIVER   WILLIAM    BOURNE    PEA- 
BODY. 

Lines 85 

Too  Early  Lost, 85 

Stanza*, 87 

WILLIAM    BOURNE    OLIVER   PEA- 
BODY. 

The  Autumn  Evening 88 

The  Rising  Moon, 89 

Tin- I  >cath  of  an  Infant 89 

Mouadnock 90 

CALEB  STARK. 

The  Battle  of  Lundy 's  Lane 93 

HKN.IAM1N  UKOWN  FRENCH. 

Tin- Maiden  at  Church 93 

Thoughts  on  Visiting  the  Place  of 

m>   Nativity, 94 

Song  for  the  Atlantic  Cable  Celebra 
tion,  95 

Hymn  composed  at  Gettysburg, 97 

The  Last  Words  of  John'  Bmwn 98 

NATHANIEL  GOOKIN  UPHAM. 

Dedication  Hymn 99 


AMOS  BLANCHARD. 

An  Evening  in  a  Grave-yard, 100 

MARY  CUTTS. 

Sea  Shells, 101 

Song 102 

The  Fated 103 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  HAMMOND. 

The  Prospect, 103 

Fora  Friend's  Album, 104 

Prudence 105 

CHARLES  WARREN  BREWSTER. 

History  of  News— Birth  of  the  Press,  105 

CYNTHIA  L.  GEBOULD. 

Sunset 107 

Hymn  for  the  Season, 108 

ASA  DODGE  SMITH. 

To  Mount  Ascutney, 109 

ROBERT  BOODEY  CAVERLY. 

The  Old  Garrison  House, 110 

Clara 113 

SUSAN  REBECCA  AYER  BARNES. 

Our  Mountain  Homes,  113 

Farewell  to  New  England 114 

MOODY  CURRIER. 

All  Things  Change 115 

October, 116 

On  recover!  ng  from  sickness, 1 16 

The  Indians 117 

EPHRAIM  PEABODY. 
West* s  Picture  of  the  Infant  Samuel,  117 
The  Skater's  Song 118 

JAMES  BREMAN. 

Stanzas 119 

THOMAS  P.  MOSES. 

To  a  Miniature  of  a  departed  Friend,  130 

EUNICE  KIMBALL  DANIELS. 

The  First  Flower, 120 

HUGH  MOORE. 

Spring  is  Coming, 121 

To-morrow, 122 

Midnight,   123 

MARY  WILKINGS  SPAULDING. 

Why  should  we  cling  to  earth 124 

EDMUND  BURKE. 

In  Imitation  of  Burns, 124 

STEPHEN  GREENLEAF  BULFINCH. 
Lines    on   visiting  Tollulah    Falls, 

Georgia, 125 

Hymn  for  Sabbath  Morning  Worship,  126 
MILTON  WARD. 

The  Lyre 126 

JOHN  H.  WARLAND. 

Summer, ]28 

The  Dumb  Child 130 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Charles  J .  Fox,  132 
LEWIS  C.  BROWNE. 

Briers  and  Berries 133 

A  Song  of  Age 135 

Teaching     School     and     Boarding 
Around, 136 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Threescore  and  Ten 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

The  Ship, 

Triformis  Diana 

The  Poet, 


CAROLINE  ORNE. 


Hi" 


139 
140 
Ul 


Sabbath  Evening,... 
The  Exile 

The  Heart's  Guests, 


142 
14:5 
144 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  ADAMS. 

God's  Angels, 

Heaven  Here, 

Strive  to  make  the  world  better 

ESTHER  WALDEN  BARNES. 


For  Memorial  Day, 
Easter  Carol 


LOUISA  SIMES. 

From  Youth  to  Manhood 

To  the  Clouds, 


147 

148 


148 
149 


HORACE  GREELEY. 

The  Faded  Stars, 150 

Darkness  over  earth  was  sleeping,. .  151 

On  the  death  of  William  Wirt 151 

Fantasies,  152 

MARY  STEARNS  PATTERSON. 

The  Autumn  Rose, 153 

Lines  for  a  Young  Lady's  Album,  ..  154 

MARY  RAYMOND  PRATT. 

"Do  they  love  there  still?" 154 

ELIAS  NASON. 

A  Morning  Hymn, 155 

A  Christmas  Carol 156 

Jesus  Only, 157 

The  Poor  "Man  at  the  Gate  of  Para 
dise 157 

The  Lord's  Prayer,  Paraphrased,...  158 

The  Smile  of  the  King 158 

The  Blue  Gentian 158 

CHARLES  JAMES  FOX. 

The  Christian  Promise 160 

JOHN  NELSON  MOSES. 

Stanzas, 161 

GEORGE  MATHER  CHAMPNEY. 

Lines  to  Souhegan  River, 161 

JAMES  CHURCHILL  BRYANT. 

Sabbath  Morning, 164 

In  Sickness, 165 

BENJAMIN  PENHALLOW    SHILLA- 
BER. 

A  Country  Summer  Sunday, 166 

Piseataqua 168 

The  Hidden  Treasure, 170 

WOODBURY  MELCHER  FERNALD. 

My  Daughter's  Home,   173 

A'Vision  of  Eternal  Glory 174 


WILLIAM  B.  MARSH. 

The  Bright  Spirit  Land, 175 

EZRA  EASTMAN  ADAMS. 

Stepping  with  the  Stars, 170 

"I  move  into  the  Light," 177 

Growing  Old 178 

What  may  we  carry  to  the  Vast  For 
ever 178 

EDWARD  D.  BOYLSTON. 
Bridal  of  the  Granite  and  Pine,.. . 

The  Pemigewassett 

The  "Great  Light," 

"Nearer  Thee," 

"Without  God  in  the  World," 

The  Blessed  Sabbath 


179 
180 
181 
182 
1S2 
183 


CHARLES  W.  UPHAM. 
Jacob's  Funeral , 


MATTHEW  HARVEY. 

The  Old  Hearth-etone 

A  Pathetic  Ballad 

Stanzas 


183 


184 

185 

187 


AUGUSTA  HARVEY  WORTHEN. 


The  Lily's  Story 

Kearsarge   Mountain  to   its   Name- 


191 


MARY  WHITCHER. 
The  Snowstorm, 192 

JAMES  KENNARD. 

Fourth  of  July 193 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?   194 

WILLIAM  WENTWORTH  BECK. 

The  World  as  it  is, 196 

The  Soul, 197 

LEANDER  CLARK. 

Song £....  l"98 

A  Dirge 198 

Lines, 199 

Faith  and  Hope 199 

Sonnet 200 

Sonnet 200 

Hester  Moreland, 200 

In  tram  arcs 202 

MARY  B.  HOSMER. 

The  Beggar's  Christmas  Eve 203 

After  Seventeen  Years, 204 

Twilight  Musings, 205 

Our  Soldiers'  Graves 206 

HARRIET  N.  DONELERY. 

Sunset, 207 

Orilla 208 

Sons  of  New  Hampshire, 209 

SARAH  SHEDD. 

An  Indian's  Lament  on  the  banks  of 

the  Saco, 210 

Old  Draper  Hill, 211 

LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 

The  Doomed  Race, 212 

ADeath  Scene 213 


CONTEXTS. 


HARRY  HIBBARD. 

Franconia  Mountain  Notch, 214 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  CROSBY. 

To  Merrlmack  River 218 

HORATIO  HALE. 

The  Eagle's  Speech, 221 

LI  DOS  for  my  Cousin's  Album, -l-l'i 

I'.I.N.I  \MIN    D.   I.AK.IITON. 

Lines  written  In  May --' • 

Stanzas, ." 225 

SAMUEL  C.  BALDWIN. 
The  Voices  of  the  Ocean, 225 

.1  \MI>  Tlli/M  \>   1  IKf.J)S. 

The  Owl-Critic, -'.''. 

The  Seard •-'> 

15ull:id  of  the  Tempest, -J-.'s 

The  Lover's  Peril, 22'.i 

A  Protest, 229 

Morning  and  Evening  by  the  Sea,...  230 
Agassi/. 230 

SAMUEL  TENKEY  HILDRETH. 
Fame  and  Love 931 

JAMt>  WAKIIKN  PAUMELEE. 

Ode  to  the  South  Branch  of  Sugar 

River 232 

Stanzas, 23.5 

A  Smoking  Reverie, -234 

JAMES  OSGOOD  ADAMS. 

The  Dying  Rose's  Lament, 235 

LUCY  P.  ADAMS. 

The  Sunbeam, 235 

HARR1ETTE  VAN  MATER  FRENCH. 

The  Friend  of  an  Hour 236 

The  World  is  all  Beauty 237 

Short  the  Time, 237 

Two  Maidens 238 

JOHN  RILEY  VARNEY. 

To  the  Fire  Fl v, 239 

What  is  Beauty? 240 

CHARLES  ANDERSON  DANA. 

Via  Sacra, 241 

Manhood 

ToR.  B. ^2 

EDWARD  ERASMUS  SARGEANT. 

The  Indian  Mother  to  her  Son,    243 

ALBERT  I'ERRY. 

The  Grand  Monadnock, 246 

LEONARD  SWAIN. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills 246 

DEBORAH  G.  FOSS. 
To  a  Spinning  Wheel,  . .  24fl 

All  Hallow  Eve 249 

SIMEON  P.  HEATH. 
Extract  from  a  poem 280 


EDWARD  DEAN  RAND. 

Behind  the  Veil 052 

In  Memoriam 2.53 

Growing  Old 253 

WILLIAM  CANT  STUROC. 

The  Poet's  Mite 255 

Mary 256 

W:i>hin.irti>n,  256 

Lake  Sunapee 257 

The  Unrewarded 259 

KIGENE  BACHELDER. 

The  Union 260 

Fair  Columbia 260 

JOSEPH  BROWN  SMITH. 

To  My  Mother, 261 

Hymn,   262 

DANIEL  AUGUSTUS  DROWN. 

Beautiful  is  Moonlight 263 

May-Flowers, 2<>4 

The  Old  Elm, 2«5 

Jesus,  My  Hope 266 

ADALIZA  CUTLER  PHELPS. 

To  a  Bird  in  Midwinter,  267 

JACOB  RICHARDS  DODGE. 

The  Mariner's  Betrothed, 26# 

The  Lovely  Dead 2(!9 

New  Hampshire  In  the  Centuries,...  270 

WILLIAM  PLUMER. 

The  Blind  Boy 271 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  WOOD. 

Invocation  to  Spring, 

Father's  growing  old,  John,... 
To  Her  who  sits  in  Soft  Attire, 
New  Hampshire, 


The  Blind  Man's  Evening  Hymn, ... 
JULIA  A.  A.  WOOD. 

Legend  of  the  Willow, 

Lines  for  Ash  Wednesday, 


272 
•274 
275 
•276 
277 


178 

279 


MARY  E.  BLAIR. 


Fellowship  in  Suffering, 
Love  is  dead, 


280 
282 


FANNIE  E.  FOSTER. 
The  Poet's  Grave... 


284 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  KENT. 


To  a  California  Pine, 

To  a  Locomotive 

Sonnet  to  Spring,.... 

Rain  in  April 

A  Brother's  Plea,.... 
The  Voice  of  Peace,. 


M  IIOIIAH  WRIGHT. 

MySpirltHome 

HENRY  W.  HERRICK. 

The  Spider's  Web 

The  Humble  Bee 

The  Tomb  of  Stark 


285 
285 
285 
286 
286 
287 


288 


289 
290 
291 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


GEOEGE  NELSON  BRYANT. 

Evenings  at  Home, 291 

lam  the  Door 292 

Hymn  to  the  Mountains, 293 

CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS. 

Repose,   294 

Fearnot, 295 

The  Fountain  of  Youth 295 

ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

Our  Home-Maker 296 

The  Two  Powers 298 

•MIRON  JAMES  HAZELTINE. 

The  Awaking  of  Freedom 299 

Words 300 

To  the  Sea, 301 

HANNAH  BRYANT  HAZELTINE. 

A  Northern  October, 302 

Morning-,  Noon  and  Night 303 

Cloud  Pictures 304 

JAMES  W.  BARKER. 

Darning  Stockings 805 

One  Request 306 

EDWARD  A.  HOSMER. 

O  Give  me  a  Home  by  the  Sea 308 

Remember  Me 308 

AMOS  B.  RUSSELL. 

My  Border  Land 309 

Ad  Astra, 309 

My  Mother, 310 

Anchored 310 

WILLIAM  STARK. 

Extract  from  Centennial  Poem, 311 

ALBON  H.  BAILEY. 

The  Village  Bells, 313 

To  Bunker  Hill  Monument 314 

JUSTIN  E.  WALKER. 

Trust  in  God, 315 

A  Three-Fold  Aspect 316 

ASENATH  C.  STICKNEY. 

Words  of  My  Saviour 317 

Universal  Love, 318 

EDWARD  WHITESIDE  WOODDELL. 

Christmas  Eve, 318 

FREDERIC  A.  MOORE. 

The  Bachelor's  Song 319 

JOSEPH  EDWARD  HOOD. 
White  River, 320 

GEORGE  PAYN  QUACKENBOS. 

My  Soul's  Song, 321 

The  Rose 322 

The  Flower  and  the  Tree 323 

Song  of  the  Butterfly, 324 

The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say  "Come,"  325 
SAMUEL  J.  PIKE. 

Stanzas, 326 

The  Better  Land 327 

He  Giveth  His  Beloved  Sleep 328 

Sonnet, 329 

Sonnet 329 


ENOCH  GEORGE  ADAMS. 

The  Pond  amid  the  Hills,.. 330 

The  Precioueness  of  Tears, 330 

JOHN  BODWELL  WOOD. 

The  Worth  of  Baubles,. 332 

Courage,  Forever, 332 

One  Flash  of  Lightning— A  Telegram 
Answered 333 

HARRIET  NEWELL  EATON. 

Beatitude 334 

My  Moan 334 

The  Rain 335 

Old  John 336 

WILLIAM  COPP  FOX. 

Tom  Brown's  Reformation, 337 

The  Wolfeborough  Centennial, 339 

Lines, 340 

October 340 

JOSIAH  MOODY  FLETCHER. 

To  Adaline 342 

Adversity, 342 

Angels  By  and  By 343 

Little  Eloise, 344 

Rumney  Hills, 345 

Good  Wishes, 346 

Mourn  not  for  me  when  I  am  dead,. .  346 

The  Sleigh  Ride 347 

The  Stolen  Kiss 348 

Lines  to  the  American  Flag, 348 

The  Pauper  Mill, 349 

Mount  Washington, 349 

AURIN  M.   PAYSON. 

Sedes  Musarum, 351 

SAMUEL  CROFUT  KEELER. 

Broken-hearted 352 

The  Silent  Dead, 353 

CAROLINE  E.  R.  PARKER. 

Our  Lamb 355 

SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass, 35C 

ABBIE  HUNTOON  MCCRILLIS. 

The  Daisy, 357 

JEREMIAH  EAMES  RANKIN. 

Sleep  here  in  peace 358 

In  Sight  of  the  Crystal  Sea, 359 

After  the  Snow 360 

TheBabie 361 

SILVANUS  HAYWARD. 

Lines  at  Sunset, 362 

To  a  Sleeping  Inlant, 362 

For  the  Dedication  of  an  Album,  ...  3(i3 
Threnody 364 

THOMAS  P.  RUSSELL. 

Lines  to  a  Leaf, 365 

CELESTIA  S.  GOODALE. 

The  Wife  to  her  Husband 365 

MARY  DWIXELL  CHELLIS  LUND. 

The  Bobolink, 366 

The  Water  Sprite, 367 

Poem, 367 


Ml 


CONTENTS. 


.MA  in  KI.I/AI-.K-I  ii  i  i  K'.USON 

I'.KKTT. 
••lull's  Bluff."  .....................  #58 

I.  in.'.-  written  for  a  (."LI.  -n  WtA&Bg,  369 

-Ai:  AII  >.  ro\vKi:-K. 

Stanzas  ..............................  3I° 

Triii-  Beauty  ' 

' 


ALBKRT  I.AKMITON. 

T..  My  -..Ml 
Found  Dead 


371 


373 


i     Native  River  ..............  ....  374 

NI-W  England  ........................  375 

Ebb  and  How,  .......................  :!7:> 

The  Doail  ...........................  375 

By  the  Sea  ...........................  37(i 

Farragut,  ........................  .,..  370 

T.l.i.A    (   MAI'IN. 
The  Realm  of  Rhadnmnnthus,  ......  377 

A  tin-en  Mountain  Lyric,  ...........  379 

The  Truly  III.  •--.•,!  ...................  381 

A  Hymn,  ............................  382 

IIIKAM  LADD  SPENCER. 
Farewell  .............................  383 

T<>  Ur  Daughter,  ....................  383 

Tin-  lla.lii  said,  .....................  384 

Sonnet  ...............................  384 

>..nnct  ...............................  385 

Sonnet  ...........................  ...  385 

Sonnet  ...............................  386 

William  Cullen  Bryant,  .............  888 

We  all  shall  re.st,  ....................  386 

A  Hundred  Years  ago,  ..............  387 

Love's  Burial  ........................  387 

old,  .................................  388 

RHODA  H.  E.  KENERSON. 
To  a  Whippoorwlll,  .................  389 

Moonbeams  ..........................  389 

TIMOTHY  PERRY. 

of  May  and  of  Me  ...................  390 

To  thc'Robin  singing  in  the-  Storm,.  .  390 

JOHN  ORDRONAUX. 
Shadows  of  the  Tempter,  ............  391 

The  Chant  of  thePflgrim  ............  392 

Ode  for  the  Dartmouth  Centennial 
Celebration,  ........................  394 

Guide  me,  O  thou  Great  Jehovah,...  395 
Wliile  Thee  I  seek,  Protecting  Power,  305 

SUSAN  F.  COLGATE. 
New  Hampshire  Hills  ...............  895 

\AIII\\    FKANKLIN  CARTER. 
In  the  Sunshine,  ....................  397 

i  .  real  Thought*,  .....................  398 

In  the  Battle  of  Life,  .....  ..........  399 

Loving  Hearts  .......................  399 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 
The  Mountain  Maid,  .................  400 

Hampshire,  ....................  40-2 

The  Dead,  ..........................  406 

Contoocook  River,  ...................  407 

K.  •  irsarge,  ...........................  408 

At  Home  .............................  410 

o  Loved  and  Loet,  ..................  411 


l.mVARD  AUGUSTUS  JENKS. 

The  Farm-house 413 

Th«- OH  Man's  Yesterday, 414 

Tin-  (  hiMren 415 

To  a  Favorite  Stream -416 

Helene, 417 

Hymn 418 

AMANDA  JKMIMA   >MART. 
"The  1'oor  is  forgotten  of  his  neigh 
bor 41!) 

A  Home  in  the  Granite  State 11  > 

CONSTANCE    FENNIMOKE  WOOL- 
SON.  , 

Four-Leaved  Clover, 421 

I.A1HA  A.  NORRIS. 

Stanzas, 4-22 

Lines, 4r> 

In  Meraoriam 423 

MARY  W.  ELLSWORTH. 

A  Lament  for  Gertrude 424 

MARY  E.  B.  MILLER. 

On  Life's  Threshold 425 

GEORGE  EUGENE  BELKNA1'. 

Christening  Hymn 427 

Homeward  Bound 428 

GRACE   WEBSTER  HINSDALE. 

"LovestThouMe:1" 430 

TheUnbruised  Grain, 4'tt 

The  Untrodden  Path 431 

Listening  to  the  Sea, 433 

Raphael's  Madonna  Di  San  Sisto, 434 

CAROLINE  ANASTASIA  SPALDING. 

Architecture 4:i(i 

Mary  Lyon 438 

The  Quaker  Meeting, 439 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 440 

Whither? 442 

His  Own 444 

Angels  this  side, 445 

Heaven 4J5 

SAMUEL  BURNHAM. 

Extract  from  a  College  Poem, 446 

Inner  Life 448 

"Dum  Vivimus  Vivamus," 449 

Decoration  Hymn 449 

To  my    Grandmother, 450 

Cradle  Song 451 

MARTHA  J.  HEYWOOD. 

Rest 452 

Trust 4')2 

Aiiee, 453 

Falling,  Falling, i:,4 

Proverb  Poem, 4.M 

JOHN  WESLEY  ADA3IS. 

The  Bible l.->n 

Our  Baby 4.Vi 

GEORGE  W.  OSGOOD. 

Welcome   to  Spring, i.'.T 

The  Loved  an<[  the  Lost, !">- 

DAVID  H.  HILL. 

Chocorua, 450 

Squam  Lake, 467 


CONTENTS. 


XIII 


MARY  BLAKE  LAKE. 
The  Deaf  Girl's  Thought  of  Music, ...  468 
The  Land  of  the  Living 469 

HENRY  OAKES  KENT. 

Onward! 470 

Welcome  Home, ^ 471 

Bertie, 472 

SARAH  H.  FOSTER. 

On  the  Death  of  a  First-born  Child, ..  473 
Stanzas, 474 

HARRIET  MCEWEN  KIMBALL. 

"The  Blessed  Company  of  all  Faith 
ful  People," 475 

Thou  art  a  Place  to  hide  me  in, 477 

Hymn  for  Advent, 478 

A  "Hymn  of  Contrition 478 

Jesus  my  Refuse 479 

The  Light  of  Life 480 

Vale,  480 

LUCY  ROGERS  HILL  CROSS. 

A  Song  of  the  Hour, 481 

Scenes  from  Real  Life, 482 

MARY  M.  ROBINSON. 

The  Old  Clock, 484 

May  22, 1882 484 

The  Song  of  Life, 485 

A  Retrospect 485 

MARY  A.  A.  SENTER. 

Are  there  no  Memories? 486 

Hoping  in  vain 487 

MATTIE  E.  SMITH. 
Hope  on!  Hope  ever! 488 

GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  DE 
WOLFE. 

Louisa's  Grave 489 

Lines, 490 

AUGUSTA  COOPER  BRISTOL. 

The  Higher  Life, 491 

The  Pvxidauthera, 493 

Song  of  Childhood, 494 

The  Web  of  Life, 495 

What  the  Roses  said, 496 

LAURA  GARLAND  CARR. 

In  the  Woods, 497 

What  a  Pity!  498 

The  Wood  Thrush 499 

A  Garden, 500 

An  April  Night, 501 

A  Mountain  Pasture, 602 

The  way  to  Grandpa's, 503 

Shut  in, 505 

By  the  River,  506 

Light 507 

Off,  508 

A  Lane, 509 

MARY  H.  WHEELER. 

Apple  Blooms, 510 

Saturday  Night, 511 

A  Serenade 511 

A  Plea, 512 

My  Grandma's  Loom 513 

Digging  for  Gold,. 514 

War-Song  of  Kancamagus, 516 

Song  of  the  Frog, 518 


CELIA  THAXTER. 
The  Wreck  of  the  Pocahontas,  ...         519 
£   Tryst,  .........................................  ;  5.21 

Sorrow  ..............................................  523 

OSCAR  LAIGHTON. 
Song,  ............................................  524 

Song  ................................................  525 

At  Sunset  ...................................     5->5 

Her  Shawl,  ....................................  "  5-26 

WARREN  ROBERT   COCHRANE. 
A  Home  Missionary  Hymn,  ...............  526 

Thanks  for  the  Years,  ...................  527 

The  Morning  Call,  ...........................  528 

**ear  ...........................  .....................  509 

JULIA  VAN  NESS  WHIPPLE. 
Pearls,  ...........................................  530 

The  Voice  amid  the  Trees,  .......  ......  530 

SARAH  M.  PARKER. 
Gospel  Bells  ...................................  582 

Home  .............................................  534 

MATTIE  FRANCES  JONES. 
Will  it  be  always  Night?  ..................  535 

Have  Faith  ami  Persevere  ................  536 

CHARLOTTE  M.  PALMER. 
Faith,  ................................................  537 


A  Hymn  of  Trust  ...............................  538 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 
Enamored  Architect  of  Airy  Rhvme,  539 
Sleep,  .........................................  "  ......  539 

Tita's  Tears—  A  Fantasy  ..................  539 

GEORGE  DUDLEY  DODGE. 
Peace  be  still,  .................................  ...  541 

NANCY  PRIEST  WAKEFIELD. 
Over  the  River  .................................  542 

Heaven  ..................  ...........................  543 

DANIEL  L.  MILL1KEN. 
Garfleld,   ..........................................  544 

In  Winter  .......................................  545 

LAVINIA  PATTERSON  WEEKS. 
Spirit  Voices  ....................................  546 

"Hope  on  —  Hope  ever,"  ..................  547 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  .............  548 

EDWARD  P.  NOWELL. 
In  Memoriam  ......................  549 

EDWARD  A.  RAJSTD. 
Sing,  Bonny  Bird!  ...................  550 

The  Ship  in  the  Sunshine,  ...........  551 

Rain  on  the  Roof  .....................  5.V2 

Pond-Lilies,  ........................  552 

FRANCIS   ORMOND  FRENCH. 
Extract  from  a  Class  Day  Poem,.  .  .  .  553 

DAVID  GRAHAM  ADEE. 
At  Rome,  ............................  557 

Four  Phases,  ........................  558 

Sheiley  ..............................  559 

HENRY  AMES  BLOOD. 
The  Chimney-Nook,  .................  559 

Jumnette  .....  .  .....................    501 


The  Death  of  the  Old  Year, 563 

The  Invisible  Piper 564 

Yearnings 565 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


I. LANDER  8.  COAN. 
The  Same  Old  Flag 667 

Water  Lllie- 809 

ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON. 

To  a  Tansy .V.9 

Tin-  Departing  Year 570 

Good  Night 571 

HOMER  TAYLOR  FULLER. 

Jewels 572 

"Straightway," 674 

1MILY  GRAHAM  HAYWARD. 

The  Wreath  of  Love 575 

575 

LYDIA  H.  TILTON. 
All  Things, 

The  Bridal  Wreath 

Furnishing  the  House, 

The  Kiss  at  the  Door 


,  .......  576 

........  577 

........  578 

........  07!) 

CLARA  B.  HEATH. 
Water  Lilies,'  ........................  580 

Blueberrylng  .......................  58] 

Trail-formed  .........................  5^ 

Sea  Mo--.es  ..........................   5S3 

The  Great  Howard  ...................  584 

STEPHEN  H.  THAYER. 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Souhegan,  .....  5«S 

The  BclUof  Nyuck  ........  ..  ........  5W5 

£  JlH"'>on?r  .........................  588 

Twilight  Contrasted  ................  588 

Uninterpreted  ........................  589 

Great  Temple  of  Karnak,  ...........  590 

A  Parting  Song  ......................  501 

A  Voice  from  the  Sea  ................  591 

MIRANDA  M.  GORRELL. 
Lookinc  Across  the  Vale  ............  592 

Out  of  the  Depths  ...................  594 

HELEN  A.  F.  COCHRANE. 
<>h  Stay,  .............................  5% 


..........................  ..  597 

Across  the  Sea,  ......................  5D8 

ANNIE  B.  HOLBROOK. 

"It  Is  beautiful  there,"  ..............  (joo 

Hymn  ..............................  gOl 

Poem,  ............................  .'..I  oo! 


HKI.KN  MAR  BEAN. 
Waiting  ..............................  603 

Yesterday  and  To-day,  ..............  604 

MARY  R.  P.  HATCH. 
One  by  one,  .........................  60(5 

Tin-  Wear,   --..wcr,  .................  i:,.,; 

Count  y.Mi'r  Mercies,  .................  007 

Patrick's  Letter  ......................  608 

Al:\  II.  I.  A    AI.MIi;  \    Wo<>!»WAKI>. 

Thinking  ............................  609 

GEORGE  BANCROFT  GRIFFITH. 
lister  Homestead,  ............  610 

Tile  M.  .mi  at    1-ort  Point  ............  (ill 

The  Mate  (.ardcuof  the  Desert  ......  t;\> 

The  Chime  in  the  Andes  .............  614 

Twilight,    ...........................  615 


MARY  ELIZABETH  HOBBS. 

June 616 

Dls-llluslon 616 

Miserere 618 

i  IIARLES  CHASE  LORD. 

FleurdeLis, 619 

Heroism 620 

The  Robe  of  White, 621 

ANNIE  DOUGLAS  ROBINSON. 

Dorcas 622 

The  Yellow  Cottage 024 

Patience  Dow, 025 

CLARK  B.  COCHRANE. 

The  Days  of  Long  Ago 636 

Noon  l)v  Lake  Sunapee, 628 

The  ( »d  Red  House  on  the  Hill, <>l'.t 

To  Old  Joe  English 630 

FRANK  O.  EVERETT. 

Mabel 633 

ELIZABETH  MARTIN. 

"Love  one  another," 634 

Consecration,   (i34 

Hour  of  Worship, 635 

JAMES  G.  RUSSELL. 

"What  lack  I  yet?" CSS 

BAROX  SAMUEL  CROWELL. 

Charity 636 

THOMAS  FRANCIS  LEAHY. 

The  Men  of  Former  Days, 637 

Mollv's  Beau '. 638 

The  ROM  Of  Keene 639 

HENRY  LAURENS  TALBOT. 

"I  shall  see  Him  as  He  is," 641 

The  War-Cry, 641 

Lines, IV42 

Egbert,  my  departed  Boy 642 

LYDIA  FRANCES  CAMP. 

In  Memory  Bright 643 

CLARA  FELLOWS  MACKINTIRE. 

Musi  ngs, 644 

Autumn,  646 

MARY  HELEN  BOODEY. 

October  Musings 647 

Three  Little  Blue  Bonnets, 049 

After  1  die 650 

"Voices  of  Heart  and  Home," 651 

A  Dream, 652 

We  shall  meet  again, t^i 

ADDISON  FRANCIS  BROWNK. 

Two  Scenes 654 

Moonlight  in  September u\r> 

One  Look (i.v; 

Sleep orx; 

ADELAIDE  G.  BENNETT. 
The  New-born  Year, 658 

JOHN  ADAMS  BELLOWS. 

The  Poet, (jflj) 

Two  Pictures ooo 

-  V  L  VI A  A.  MOSS. 
How  happy 661 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


RHODA  BARTLETT  SEYMOUR. 

October, 662 

A  Measure 662 

A  Home  Picture, 663 

ALFRED  WILLIAM  SARGENT. 

Wisdom  and  Power  Divine, 663 

HORACE  B.  BAKER. 

Winter 665 

ANABEL  C.  ANDREWS. 

Evening 666 

At  Rest", 666 

Eventide 667 

EDWARD  JOHN  COLCORD. 

Action,  668 

Farewell 668 

FRANK  HENRY  CARLTON. 

The  Divine  Plan 669 

ISABEL  C.  GREENE. 

My  Love — a  song, 669 

ELLEN  MCROBERTS  MASON. 

A  Christmas  Memory, 670 

My  Dead  Love, 671 

Unreconciled 672 

My  Monitor, 673 

CLARA  E.  BOLLES. 

"Jesus  on  the  Shore," 673 

Thoughts 674 

BESSIE  BISBEE  HUNT. 

Knitting, 675 

Moving, 076 

A  Deep  Secret 677 

LORA  ELLA  CHELLIS. 

Heart's-Ease, 678 

Autumn  Leaves, 678 

The  Gentians 679 

LETITIA  M.  ADAMS. 

Violets, 680 

From  Shore  to  Shore, 681 

GRACE  E.  PICKERING. 
Rested, 682 

LUCY  BENTLEY  WIGGIN. 

The  Life  that  now  is, 6*3 

Thanksgiving  Day 684 

EDITH  E.  WIGGIN. 

Advent 684 

October  Violets, 685 

MELVIN  J.  MESSER. 

Kearsarge, 686 

Ultima  Thule 687 

GEORGE  S.  DORR. 
New  England  Homesteads 688 

The  Minstrel's  Summer  Home, 690 

CHARLES   FRANCIS    RICHARDSON. 

Child's  Hymn  at  Nightfall, 692 

Servic» 693 

Comfort 693 

Hope 694 

Sacrifice 694 

Worship, 695 

Strength 695 

Imitation, 695 


GEORGE  WALDO  BROWNE. 

Ever  Changing 696 

Always  look  up 696 

Mount  Pawtuckaway,  697 

HORACE  EATON  WALKER. 

The  Seamstress, 699 

ALTHINE  FLORENCE  SHOLES. 

Apple  Blossoms, 700 

Dreaming  mid  the  Clover, 701 

SARAH  ELIZABETH  LANE. 

A  Wish, 701 

Under  the  Elms, 702 

Good-bye 703 

LIDA  C.  TULLOCK. 

Forgive  the  Dead, 703 

Lilacs, 704 

KATE  J.  KIMBALL. 

Hymn 705 

Where  Jesus  leads, 705 

To  the  White  Violet, 706 

IDA  G.  ADAMS. 

Enid 707 

WILLIAM  HALE. 

Life's  Sculp'tor, 707 

To  my  River,  the  Piscataqua 708 

CHARLES  EDWARD  SARGENT. 

In  Units'  Place, 709 

Building  Castles  in  the  Air 709 

The  Fruitless  Search 710 

In  the  Dark  I'll  follow  Thee, 711 

FRED  CUTTER  PILLSBURY. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 

The  Eclipse, 

Hampton  Beach, 

ABBIE  NELSIA  PARTRIDGE. 

Drif  ti  ng 

Human  Faces, 

Hidden  Worth 

WILLIAM  A.  BARTLETT. 

Moestitia, 

CEdipus 

CARRIE  WHITE  OSGOOD. 

The  Bachelor's  Proposal, 

Throwing  Kisses,  

Eventide 

A  Waif 

Trifling, 

SAMUEL  WALTER  FOSS. 

The  perfect  Song, 

The  Brook  and  the  Pine, 

ANNE  PARMELEE. 

Sunset, 

Hammock  Reverie, 

Sonnet  to  Lake  Suna  pee, 

Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo, 

EMMA  CHADBOURNE  WOOD. 

The  Daisy, 

"Good-by,  Papa," 

LOTTA  BLANCHE  SMITH. 
My  Love 


712 
713 
713 


714 
715 
715 

716 
717 


718 
718 
720 
720 
721 


722 

722 

723 
724 
724 

724 


726 
72« 


727 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


CHARLES  WHEELER  COIT. 

Tay  Bridge, 728 

GEORGE  WILLIS  PATTERSON. 

A  H  vnni "30 

Venice 730 

Solitude 731 

ETTA  UDORA  FRENCH. 

APrnyer 731 

Death  and  Resurrection 732 

Questions, 733 

Tin-  <;(.|c|,-n  City 7:<4 

Thomas, 734 

.1  AMES  MEADE  ADAMS. 

October, 735 

Lad  and  Lassie, 7% 

Isabel  Deane, 737 


ANNIE  E.  DE  WOLFE. 

Une  Pensee, 737 

FANNIE  HUNTINGTON  RUNNELS. 

The  Poet's  Dream, 738 

LULU  E.  TREVITT. 

New  Year's  Eve 741 

An  Ideal 742 

In  Embryo, 743 

.MAY  E.  PERLEY. 

A  Morning  in  July,  743 

FRANCIS  DANA. 

A  Dream, 743 

HUBBARD  ALONZO  BARTON. 

Devotion 745 

MARTHA  ALMA  PIPER. 
Saturday  Eve, 746 

CAROLINE  E.  WHITON. 

Summer  Sunset, ...  747 

•JAMES  P.  WALKER. 

Seven  Years  To-day, 747 

CATHARINE  M.  MCCLINTOCK. 
Death  In  Spring 746 

S.  ADAMS  WIGGIN. 

Love, 749 

SAMUEL  HUDSON  PARTRIDGE. 

Hymn, 750 

CHARLES  L.  WHELER. 
The  Smile, 750 

IRA  HARRIS  COUCH. 

Sonnet  to  a  Cricket, ...  751 

Twilight 751 

AI.KKKI)  LITTLE. 
My  Merry  Maple  Grove, 752 

JAMKS  WILLIS  PATTERSON. 

Eventide, 753 

MARY  GIBSON  FRANCIS. 

Too  Late, 754 

SARAH  THERESA  WASON. 
Almost  Home, 755 


MARY.  MOO  UK  GLOVER  EDDY. 

Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 755 

LYDIA  A.  SWAZEY  OBEAR. 
Welcome  to  an  Infant  Granddaugh 
ter,  75« 

Hymn 757 

NANCY  D.  CURTIS. 

Music  at  Midnight, 757 

ANDREW  MCFARLAND. 

The  Mother's  Prayer 75K 

LEONARD  HEATH. 

The  Grave  of  Napoleon 760 

MARY  LITTLE  ROGERS. 

Mark  VII.  32-37, 761 

"All  Thy  Works  shall  praise  Thee, 

O  Lord," 761 

WILLIAM  D.LOCKE. 

Centennial  Year— 1875 763 

Response,  etc 764 

SAMUEL  M.  DE  MERRITT. 

To , 764 

God  and  Our  Neighbor, 765 

LYDIA  M.  HALL. 

Lines 765 

ELVIRA  A.  GIBSON. 

A  Dream, 766 

MARION  MEANS  SULLIVAN. 

The  Field  of  Monterey, 766 

The  Blue  Juuiata, 767 

MARY  ANN  SULLIVAN. 

My  Grandmother's  Elm, 768 

MARY  M.  CULVER. 

Lines, 7G8 

JOHN  ADAMS  DIX. 

Dies  Ira!, 770 

NATHANIEL  GREENE. 

To  my  Daughter  In  Heaven, 771 

Petrarch  and  Laura, 772 

ALEXANDER  HILL  EVERETT. 

The  Young  American, 773 

MARY  CLAKK. 
To  Lafayette, 773 

FREDERICK  KNIGHT. 

Faith, 774 

PHEBE  KNIGHT  MOODY. 

"5 


My  Cottage, 
Extract  Iro 


m  an  Epistle  to  a  young 
friend, 775 

CORNELIUS  STURTEVANT. 

Sonnet, 777 

SAMUEL  PHILBRICK  BAILEY. 
My  Pilgrimage, 778 

ANONYMOUS. 
When  shall  we  three  meet  again?  ...  779 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Samuel  f^aben. 


Samuel  Haven,  D.  D.,  was  born  in  1727.    He  was  ordained  minister  of  the  South 
Church  in  Portsmouth,  May  6, 1752.    He  died  March  3, 1806. 


THE  PRAISE  OF  ANGELS. 

Let  cherub  and  let  cherubim 
Clap  their  blest  wings  in  praise  of  Him  ; 
And  all  their  powers  in  rapture  raise, 
While  their  great  object  is  his  praise. 

He  formed  their  nature  like  his  own, 
And  placed  their  ranks  around  his  throne  ; 
But  conscious  distance  veiled  their  face  : 
They  bowed,  adoring  wondrous  grace. 

Ye  first-born  sons  of  early  day, 
Sing  to  his  praise,  his  will  obey ; 
And  while  you  fly  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  other  systems  round  you  roll, 

You'll  aid  his  praise,  till  all  at  last, 
When  ages  yet  unborn  are  passed, 
Centre  in  one, — in  one  great  throng, 
In  perfect  unison  their  song. 

Angels  and  men  their  voice  shall  raise 
In  sweetest  concert  to  his  praise  : 
The  great  Messiah  then  shall  shine, 
Arrayed  in  glories  all  divine, — 
The  head  of  angels  and  of  men, 
Uniting  all  to  God  again. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


ON  RESIGNATION  AND  HOPE  IN  GOD  UNDER 
TROUBLES. 

Be  still  my  heart,  be  mute  my  tongue ; 
Thou  ne'er,  as  yet,  hast  suffered  wrong  : 
A  Father's  love  inflicts  the  rod, 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  thy  God. 

Do  thunders  roar  and  billows  roll  ? 
Do  tempests  beat  upon  thy  soul  ? 
They  are  directed  by  his  hand, 
To  drive  thee  to  the  promised  land. 

Great  Lord  of  all !  thy  will  is  just : 
We  rest  secure  ;  we  firmly  trust, 
That  what  thy  will  approves  as  good 
Results  alike  from  all  of  God. 

Thy  wisdom,  power,  and  grace  combine 
To  prove  the  whole  an  act  divine  : 
E'en  justice  here  unites  with  grace, 
And  shines  with  lustre  in  thy  face. 

Shall  mortals  then  contend  on  earth  ? 
Shall  they  forget  their  humble  birth, 
And  quarrel  with  the  Power  above, 
Or  dare  dispute  that  God  is  love. 

Hush,  murmuring  thoughts  !  my  tongue  be  still, 
My  heart  resign  to  Heaven's  high  will ; 
Trust  all  to  him, — he  can't  deceive  : 
The  humble  soul  shall  surely  live. 


ISelfcnap. 


r.rlknap  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  June  4,  1744.  He  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1762.  In  1767  he  was  ordained  as  a  preacher  and  became  ii-is- 
tor  of  a  church  in  Dover,  where  he  remained  twenty  years.  In  1787  he  removed  to 


without  his  name.    Those  here  given  are  believed  to  be  of  his  authorship 


PRUDENCE. 

O  'tis  a  lovely  sight  to  see 

A  man  of  prudent  heart ! 
Whose  thoughts  and  lips  and  life  agree 

To  act  a  useful  part/ 


JEREMY  BELKNAP. 


When  envy,  strife  and  wars  begin 

In  little  angry  souls, 
Mark  how  the  sons  of  peace  come  in, 

And  quench  the  kindling  coals. 

Their  minds  are  humble,  mild  and  meek, 

Nor  does  their  anger  rise  ; 
Nor  passion  moves  their  lips  to  speak, 

Nor  pride  exalts  their  eyes. 

Their  lives  are  prudence  mixed  with  love  ; 

Good  works  emplo}'  their  day  ; 
The}'  join  the  serpent  with  the  dove, 

But  cast  the  sting  away. 

Such  was  the  Saviour  of  mankind ; 

Such  pleasures  he  pursued  ; 
His  manners  gentle  and  refined, 

His  soul  divinely  good. 


REANIMATION. 

From  thee,  great  Lord  of  life  and  death, 
Do  we  receive  our  vital  breath  ; 
And  at  thy  sov'reign  call,  resign 
That  vital  breath,  that  gift  divine. 

Wilt  thou  show  wonders  to  the  dead  ? 
Wilt  thou  revive  the  lifeless  head  ? 
And,  from  the  silence  of  the  grave, 
Wilt  thou  the  wretched  victim  save  ? 

Such  wonders,  formerly  unknown, 
Thy  providence  to  us  hath  shown  ; 
To  feeble  man  thou  dost  impart 
The  plastic,  life-redeeming  art. 

We  bless  thee  for  the  skill  and  power, 
From  death's  appearance  to  restore 
This  nice  machine  of  curious  frame, 
And  light  again  the  vital  flame. 

May  every  life  by  thee  restored 
Be  consecrated  to  the  Lord  ; 
May  pious  love  inspire  each  breast, 
Which  has  thy  saving  hand  confessed. 

Again  they  must  resign  their  breath, 
And  sink  beneath  the  stroke  of  death  ; 
When  from  that  death  they  shall  revive, 
May  each  with  thee  in  glory  live. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


CHRIST'S  COMMISSION  TO  PREACH  THE   GOSPEL. 

Thus  spake  the  Saviour,  when  he  sent 

His  ministers  to  preach  his  word  ; 
Thej-  through  the  world  obedient  went, 

And  spread  the  gospel  of  the  Lord. 

"Go  forth,  ye  heralds,  in  my  name, 
Bid  the  whole  earth  my  grace  receive  ; 

The  gospel  jubilee  proclaim, 

And  call  them  to  repent  and  live. 

"The  joyful  news  to  all  impart, 
And  teach  them  where  salvation  lies  ; 

Bind  up  the  broken,  bleeding  heart, 
And  wipe  the  tear  from  weeping  C3*es. 

"Be  wise  as  serpents  where  3-011  go, 

But  harmless  as  the  peaceful  dove ; 
And  let  your  heaven-taught  conduct  show 

That  3'ou're  commissioned  from  above. 

"Freety  from  me  3re  have  received, 

Freely,  in  love,  to  others  give  ; 
Thus  shall  3'our  doctrines  be  believed, 

And,  b3r  3'our  labors,  sinners  live. 

"All  power  is  trusted  in  my  hands, 

I  will  protect  3'ou  and  defend  ; 
Whilst  thus  you  follow  ni3T  commands, 

I'm  with  3'ou  till  the  world  shall  end." 

Happy  those  servants  of  the  Lord, 

Who  thus  their  Master's  will  obey ! 
How  rich,  how  full  is  their  reward, 

Reserved  until  the  final  da<  ! 


THE  GOD  OF  NATURE. 

Hail,  King  supreme  !  all  wise  and  good  ! 

To  thee  our  thoughts  we  raise  ; 
Whilst  nature's  lovely  charms,  displayed, 

Inspire  our  souls  with  praise. 

At  morning,  noon,  and  evening  mild, 
Thy  works  engage  our  view  ; 

And  as  we  gaze,  our  hearts  exult 
With  transports  ever  new. 


JEREMY  BELKNAP. 


Th}'  glory  beams  in  every  star 
Which  gilds  the  gloom  of  night ; 

And  decks  the  rising  face  of  morn 
With  rays  of  cheering  light. 

Th'  aspiring  hill,  the  verdant  lawn, 
With  thousand  beauties  shine  ; 

The  vocal  grove  and  cooling  shade 
Proclaim  thy  power  divine. 

From  tree  to  tree,  a  constant  Irymn 
Emploj's  the  feathered  throng  ; 

To  thee  their  cheerful  notes  they  swell, 
And  chant  their  grateful  song. 

Great  nature's  God  !  still  may  these  scenes 

Our  serious  hours  engage  ; 
Still  may  our  wondering  eyes  pursue 

Thy  work's  instructive  page. 


OBEDIENCE  TO  GOD  OUR  FATHER. 

O  God,  my  Father,  I  adore 

That  all-commanding  name  ; 
It  will  my  soul  to  life  restore, 

And  kindle  all  my  flame. 

Entire  I  bow  at  thy  commands, 

My  filial  homage  pay ; 
With  heart  and  life,  with  tongue  and  hands, 

I'll  cheerfully  obey. 

I'll  wilfully  no  more  transgress, 

As  I  too  oft  have  done  ; 
But  every  sinful  thought  suppress, 

Each  sinful  action  shun. 

Each  day  I  live  I'll  seek  with  care 

My  Father  well  to  please  ; 
And  in  this  course  will  persevere, 

By  thine  assisting  grace. 

Thus  will  I  my  relation  claim, 

And  call  myself  th}f  son  ; 
And,  whilst  I  bear  the  glorious  name, 

My  Father's  rights  will  own. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


I  will ;  but  tbou  must  strength  impart, 

This  promise  to  fulfil ; 
Lord,  write  thy  law  upon  my  heart, 

That  I  may  do  thy  will. 


MARRIAGE. 

Mysterious  rite  !  by  Heaven  ordained   • 

This  sacred  truth  to  prove, 
The  bliss  which  mortals  here  enjoy, 

Must  flow  from  virtuous  love. 

Though  made  by  God's  almighty  hand, 

And  in  his  image  formed  ; 
Yet  Adam  knew  no  happiness, 

Till  love  his  bosom  warmed. 

Eden,  with  all  its  beauteous  groves, 

And  fruits  of  richest  taste, 
To  one  for  social  bliss  designed 

Was  but  a  lonely  waste. 

But  when  his  lovely  bride  appeared, 

In  native  graces  drest, 
The  latent  spark  burst  into  flame, 

And  love  inspired  his  breast. 

What  wise  provision  hast  thou  made, 

Great  Parent  of  mankind, 
That  all  thine  offspring  may  enjoy 

The  bliss  for  them  designed  ! 

Then  will  we  join  our  hearts  and  hands 

In  bonds  of  virtuous  love  ; 
And  whilst  we  live  in  peace  below, 

Prepare  for  bliss  above. 


LINES 

Found  among  the  author's  papers  after  his  death. 

When  faith  and  patience,  hope  and  love, 
Have  made  us  meet  for  heaven  above, 
How  blest  the  privilege  to  rise 
Snatched  in  a  moment  to  the  skies  ! 
Unconscious  to  resign  our  breath, 
Nor  taste  the  bitterness  of  death. 


JONATHAN  MITCHEL  SEW  ALL. 


Such  be  my  lot,  Lord,  if  thou  please, 

To  die  in  silence  and  at  ease. 

When  thou  dost  know  that  I'm  prepared, 

O  seize  me  quick  to  my  reward. 

But  if  thy  wisdom  sees  it  best 

To  turn  thine  ear  from  this  request — 

If  sickness  be  the  appointed  way, 

To  waste  this  frame  of  human  clay ; 

If,  worn  with  grief  and  racked  with  pain, 

This  earth  must  turn  to  earth  again  ; 

Then  let  thine  angels  round  me  stand — 

Support  me  by  thy  powerful  hand ; 

Let  not  my  faith  or  patience  move, 

Nor  aught  abate  mj7  hope  or  love  ;  ' 

But  brighter  may  thy  graces  shine, 

Till  they're  absorbed  in  light  divine. 


Jonathan  Jftitcfjel 


J.  M.  Sewall  was  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  in  1748.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  Col 
lege,  and  in  1774  was  Register  of  Probate  for  Graf  ton  County.  He  afterwards  went 
to  Portsmouth,  where  he  remained  until  his  death  in  1808."  He  published  a  small 
volume  in  1801,  entitled  "Miscellaneous  Poems,  with  several  specimens  from  the 
author'  3  version  of  the  Poems  of  Ossian."  His  lyrics  warmed  the  patriotism  and 
cheered  the  hearts  of  the  soldiers  of  the  Revolution  In  the  perils  of  the  battle  and 
the  privations  of  the  camp. 


THE  SEASONS. 

SPRING. 

Soft  gales  to  Winter's  chilling  blasts  succeed  ; 
Perfumed  with  odors,  blooms  the  enamelled  mead  ; 
Re-echoing  music  fills  the  vocal  grove, 
Inspiring  every  sense  with  joy  and  love ; 
Nature  to  its  great  author  homage  pays, 
Glowing  with  rapture,  gratitude,  and  praise. 

SUMMER. 

See,  glowing  ether  sheds  one  boundless  blaze  ! 
Unclouded  Phoebus  darts  intense  his  rays  : 
Mercy !  not  one  kind  breeze?  Ye  clouds,  arise  ; 
Melt  in  soft  showers,  and  mitigate  the  skies. 
Enough,  I  hear  the  distant  thunder's  voice  : 
Rejoice  !  it  pours  amain  ;  ye  grateful  fields,  rejoice  ! 

AUTUMN. 

Adieu,  ye  vernal  fields  :  now  Autumn  reigns, 
Unloads  her  gifts,  rewards  the  peasant's  pains. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Then,  while  }rour  crowded  barns  scarce  hold  the  grain, 
Unasked,  like  Boaz,  let  the  stranger  glean  : 
More  plenteous  crops  shall  crown  each  fertile  vale, 
Nor  your  rich,  ponderous  harvests  ever  fail. 

WINTER. 

Winter,  dread  Winter  reigns  !  each  joy  o'ercasts, 
Involved  in  tempests,  armed  with  piercing  blasts  ! 
Nature's  locked  up  !  whole  rivers  as  they  run, 
To  flint  converted,  mock  the  feeble  sun  ; 
Enrobed  in  fleecy  garb  the  fields  are  bright, 
Revealing  to  the  eye  one  boundless,  shining  white. 


ANNIVERSARY  SONG. 

When  our  great  sires  this  land  explored, 
A  shelter  from  tyrannic  wrong  ; 

Led  on  by  heaven's  Almighty  Lord, 
They  sung  and  acted  well  the  song, — 

Arise  united  !  dare  be  freed  ! 

Our  souls  shall  vindicate  the  deed. 

In  vain  the  region  they  would  gain 
Was  distant,  dreary,  undisclosed  ; 

In  vain  the  Atlantic  roared  between, 
And  hosts  of  savages  opposed. 

They  rushed  undaunted :  Heaven  decreed 

Their  sons  should  vindicate  the  deed. 

'Twas  Freedom  led  the  wanderers  forth, 

And  manly  fortitude  to  bear  : 
They  toiled,  succeeded, — such  high  worth 

Is  always  Heaven's  peculiar  care. 
Their  great  example  still  inspires, 
Nor  dare  we  act  beneath  our  sires. 

Tis  ours  undaunted  to  defend 
The  dear-bought,  rich  inheritance  ; 

And,  spite  of  ever}*  hostile  hand, 

We'll  fight,  bleed,  die  !  in  its  defence  ; 

Pursue  our  fathers'  path  to  fame  ; 

And  emulate  their  glorious  flame. 

As  Jove's  high  plant  inglorious  stands, 
Till  storms  and  thunders  root  it  fast ; 

So  stood  our  new,  unpractised  bands, 
Till  Britain  waved  her  stormy  blast. 


JONATHAN  MITCHEL  SEW  ALL. 


Her  soon  they  vanquished,  fierce  led  on 
B}T  Freedom  and  great  Washington  ! 

Hail,  godlike  hero  !  born  to  save  ! 

Ne'er  shall  thy  deathless  laurels  fade, 
But  on  thy  brow  eternal  wave, 

And  consecrate  blest  Vernon's  shade  ; 
Th}-  spreading  glories  still  increase, 
Till  earth  and  time  and  nature  cease. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  LAST  CHAPTER  OF 
ECCLESIASTES. 

While  life's  warm  current  revels  in  each  vein, 
And  youth,  health,  joy,  uninterrupted  reign, 
Attend  the  dictates  of  celestial  truth, 
Remember  thy  Creator  in  thy  }-outh, 
Before  the  evil  days  come  hastening  on, 
When  thou  shalt  say,  "My  every  joy  is  flown  ;" 
Ere  day's  bright  orb,  and  milder  queen  of  night, 
With  every  twinkling  star  withhold  their  light ; 
When  azure  skies  no  more  succeed  the  rain, 
But  clouds,  insolving  clouds,  return  again  ; 
When  palsies  seize  the  trembling  limbs,  and  make 
The  strong  men  bow  !  the  palace-keepers  quake  ! 
The  lessening  grinders  from  their  office  fail, 
While  darkness  round  the  windows  spreads  her  veil. 
In  every  street  the  sullen  portals  close, 
And  the  cock's  clarion  interrupts  repose ; 
Imaginary  snares  the  way  beset, 
The  tumbling  ruin,  the  deep  yawning  pit ; 
,While  ceaseless  terrors  every  sense  alarm ; 
Even  Music's  tuneful  daughters  cease  to  charm. 
Strewn  o'er  with  blossoms,  blooms  the  almond-tree  ; 
The  grass-hopper  a  burthen  seems  to  be  ; 
Life's  glimmering  taper  shoots  a  feeble  fire, 
Just  ready  in  the  socket  to  expire  ; 
All  sense  of  joy  extinguished,  all  desire, 
Till  man  to  his  long-destined  home  is  borne, 
And  the  slow  minstrels  through  the  city  mourn. 
Ere  the  fine  silver  cord  be  snapt  in  twain, 
Or  broke  the  golden  bowl  that  holds  the  brain  ; 
The  wheel  around  its  cistern  cease  to  turn, 
Or  at  Life's  fountain  fails  the  vital  urn. 
Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  earth  again, 
The  soul  to  God  ascend,  with  him  to  reign. 


10  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

ISatttotn. 

Thomas  Baldwin,  D.  D.,  was  a  Baptist  clergyman,  and,  in  his  early  ministry,  was 
pastor  of  a  church  in  Canaan.  While  there  he  wrote  several  hymns.  He  was 
f>orn  in  Norwich,  Conn.,  In  1753,  and  died  in  182:5.  The  hymn  here  given  was  com 
posed  during  a  night  journey  from  Newport  to  Canaan.  There  had  been  (UwflbettOB 
in  the  church  at  Newport  and  his  visit  there  had  resulted  in  bringing  about  a  "union 
of  the  saints." 


THE  UNION  OF  THE  SAINTS. 

From  whence  does  this  union  arise, 
That  hatred  is  conquered  by  love  ? 

It  fastens  our  souls  in  such  ties 
As  distance  and  time  can't  remove. 

It  cannot  in  Eden  be  found, 

Nor  yet  in  Paradise  lost ; 
It  grows  on  Immanuel's  ground, 

And  Jesus'  dear  blood  it  did  cost. 

My  brethren  are  dear  unto  me, 
Our  hearts  are  united  in  love ; 

Where  Jesus  is  gone  we  shall  be, 
In  yonder  blest  mansions  above. 

Why  then  so  unwilling  to  part, 

Since  there  we  shall  all  meet  again  ; 

Engraved  on  Immanuel's  heart, 
At  a  distance  we  cannot  remain. 

O  when  shall  we  see  that  bright  day, 
And  join  with  the  angels  above, 

Set  free  from  these  prisons  of  clay, 
United  in  Jesus'  dear  love. 

With  him  we  shall  evermore  reign, 
And  all  his  bright  glories  shall  see, 

Singing,  Hallelujah,  Amen ! 
Amen,  even  so  let  it  be. 


Binsmoor. 

The  "Rustic  Bard,"  as  he  Is  called,  was  born  In  Windham,  October  7, 1757.  At 
twenty  years  of  age  he  fought  at  the  battle  of  Saratoga.  He  became  a  farmer,  and 
passed  his  long  life  in  his  native  town.  He  had  but  a  scanty  education.  A  volume 
of  his  poems  was  published  in  1828.  His  poetry  seems  to  have  come  bv  nature. 
It  had  its  sentiment  and  its  Doric  humor,  which  did  not  disdain  very  homely  reali 
ties,  as  in  the  account  of  his  illnesg,  of  which  the  reader  will  be  satisfied  on  the 
production  of  a  single  stanza : 


ROBERT  DINSMOOB.  11 

"With  senna,  salts,  and  castor  oil, 

They  drenched  me  every  little  while; 
The  strong  disease  such  power  could  foil, 

To  yield  full  loth ; 
At  length  we  found  the  foe  recoil, 

At  the  hot  bath." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  him,"  writes  J.  G.  Whittier,  "he  was  chaffering  in  the 
market-place  of  my  native  village  (Haverhill),  swapping  potatoes,  and  onions,  and 
pumpkins,  for  tea,  coffee,  molasses,  and,  if  the  truth  be  told,  New  England  rum.  He 
stood  stoutly  and  sturdily  in  his  thick  shoes  of  cowhide,  like  one  accustomed  to 
tread  independently  the  soil  of  his  own  acres — his  broad,  honest  face,  seamed  by 
care  and  darkened  by  exposure  to  'all  the  airs  that  blow,'  and  his  white  hair  flowing 
in  patriarchal  glory  beneath  his  felt  hat.  Peace  ;to  him.  In  the  ancient  burial- 
ground  of  Windham,  by  the  side  of  his  'beloved  Molly,"  and  in  view  of  the  old 
meeting-house,  there  is  a  green  mound  of  earth,  where,  every  spring,  green  grasses 
tremble  in  the  wind,  and  the  warm  sunshine  calls  out  the  flowers.  There,  gathered 
like  one  of  his  own  ripe  sheaves,  the  farmer-poet  sleeps  with  his  fathers." 


THE  POET'S  FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSES. 

Forbear,  my  friend,  withdraw  }"our  plea, 
Ask  not  a  song  from  one  like  me, 

O'ercast  with  clouds  of  sorrow. 
My  spring  of  life  and  summer's  fled, 
I  mourn  those  darling  comforts  dead, 

Regardless  of  to-morrow ! 
My  harp  is  on  the  willow  hung, 

Nor  dissipates  the  gloom  ; 
My  sweetest  minstrel's  all  unstrung, 

And  silent  as  the  tomb. 

My  lute,  too,  is  mute  too, 

While  drops  the  trickling  tear ; 

My  organ  makes  jargon, 

And  grates  my  wounded  ear. 

Farewell,  you  mould'ring  mansion,  there 
Where  first  I  drew  the  natal  air, 

And  learned  to  prate  and  play. 
There  rose  a  little  filial  band, 
Beneath  kind  parents'  fostering  hand — 

Their  names  let  live  for  aye  ! 
The}-  taught  their  offspring  there  to  read 

And  hymn  their  Maker's  praise, 
To  say  their  catechism  and  creed, 

And  shun  all  vicious  wa}'S. 

They,  careful  and  prayerful, 

Their  pious  precepts  pressed, 

With  ample  example 

Their  children  still  were  blessed. 

Kind  man,  my  guardian  and  m}T  sire, 
Friend  of  the  muse  and  poet's  lyre, 


I  -J  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

With  genuine  wit  and  glee 
Thou  sweetly  did  thy  numbers  glide, 
When,  all  delighted  by  his  side, 

He  read  his  verse  to  me. 
The  parallel  was  drawn  between 

The  freedom  we  possessed, 
And  where  our  fathers  long  had  been 

By  lords  and  bishops  pressed. 

His  rli3'me  then  did  chime  then 

Like  music  through  my  heart ; 

Desiring,  aspiring, 

I  strove  to  gain  his  art. 

No  more  I'll  tune  the  poet's  lyre, 
No  more  I'll  ask  the  muses'  fire, 

To  warm  my  chilling  breast ; 
No  more  I'll  feel  the  genial  flame, 
Nor  seek  a  poet's  deathless  fame, 

But  silent  sink  to  rest. 
Farewell,  the  mount  called  Jenny's  Hill — 

Ye  stately  oaks  and  pines  ! 
Farewell,  yon  pretty  purling  rill, 
Which  from  its  brow  declines, 
Meandering  and  wandering 
The  woodbines  sweet  among, 
Where  pleasure  could  measure 
The  bobylinkorn's  song. 

On  summer  evenings,  calm  and  bright, 
O'er  yonder  summit's  towering  height, 

With  pleasure  did  I  roam  ; 
Perhaps  to  seek  the  robin's  }'oung, 
Or  list  the  mavis'  warbling  tongue, 

And  bring  the  heifers  home — 
See  from  my  foot  the  nighthawk  rise, 

And  leave  her  unfledged  pair, 
Then  quick  descending  from  the  skies, 

Like  lightning  cut  the  air. 

The  hares  there,  she  scares  there, 

And  through  the  pines  they  trip, 

They're  sought  then,  and  caught  then, 

By  my  companion,  Skip. 

Andover's  steeples  there  were  seen, 
While  o'er  the  vast  expanse  between, 

I  did  with  wonder  gaze  ; 
There,  as  it  were  beneath  my  feet, 


EGBERT  DINSMOOB.  13 

I  viewed  my  father's  pleasant  seat — 

My  joy  in  younger  days. 
There  Windham  Range,  in  flowery-  vest, 

Was  seen  in  robes  of  green, 
While  Gobbet's  Pond,  from  east  to  west, 

Spread  her  bright  waves  between. 

Cows  lowing,  cocks  crowing, 

While  frogs  on  Gobbet's  shore, 

Lay  croaking,  and  mocking 

The  bull's  tremendous  roar. 

The  fields  no  more  their  glories  wear, 
The  forests  now  stand  bleak  and  bare, 

All  of  their  foliage  stript ; 
The  rosy  lawn,  the  flowery  mead, 
Where  lambkins  used  to  play  and  feed, 

By  icy  fingers  nipt. 
No  more  I'll  hear  with  ravished  ears, 

The  music  of  the  wood  ; 
Sweet  scenes  of  youth,  now  gone  with  years 

Long  pass'd  beyond  the  flood. 

Bereaved  and  grieved^ 

I  solitary  wail, 

With  sighing  and  crying, 

My  drooping  spirits  fail. 

No  more  will  I  the  Spring  Brook  trace, 
No  more  with  sorrow  view  the  place 

Where  Mary's  wash-tub  stood  ; 
No  more  I'll  wander  there  alone, 
And  lean  upon  the  mossy  stone, 

Where  once  she  piled  her  wood. 
'Twas  there  she  bleached  her  linen  cloth, 

By  j'onder  bass-wood  tree  ; 
From  that  sweet  stream  she  made  her  broth, 

Her  pudding  and  her  tea, 

Whose  rumbling  and  tumbling 

O'er  rocks  with  quick  despatch, 

Made  ringing  and  singing, 

None  but  her  voice  could  match. 

Farewell,  sweet  scenes  of  rural  life, 
M}7  faithful  friends  and  loving  wife, 

But  transient  blessings  all. 
Bereft  of  those,  I  sit  and  mourn ; 
The  spring  of  life  will  ne'er  return, 

Chill  death  grasps  great  and  small ; 


14  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  (till  before  tliee,  God  of  truth ! 
O,  hear  my  prayer  and  cry  ! 

Let  me  enjoy  immortal  youth, 
With  saints  above  the  sky. 
Thy  praise  there,  I'll  raise  there, 
With  all  my  heart  and  soul, 
AVhere  pleasure  and  treasure, 
In  boundless  oceans  roll. 


porter. 


Mrs.  Sarah  Porter  was  author  of  a  poem  which  is  almost  forgotten.  The  title  of 
it  is,  "The  Koval  Penitent,  in  three  parts;  to  which  is  added  David's  Lamentation 
over  Saul  ami  Jonathan.  I5y  Mrs.  Sarah  Porter,  of  Plymouth,  New  Hampshire. 
Concord,  George  Hough,  1791.""  It  filled  nineteen  pages  in  duodecimo.  In  vol.  3  of 
Kettell's  American  Poets  is  found  a  portion  of  the  poem  filling  three  pages.  Only 
an  extract  is  here  given. 


THE  ROYAL  INFANT. 

2  Samuel,  Chapter  xii. 

Death's  angel  now,  commissioned  by  the  Lord, 

O'er  the  fond  infant  holds  the  fatal  sword  ; 

From  the  dread  sight  the  frantic  father  turns, 

And,  clad  in  sackclofeh,  in  his  chamber  mourns ; 

The  monitor,  within  the  royal  breast, 

That  long  had  slept,  now  roused  at  length  from  rest, 

Holds  forth  a  mirror  to  the  aching  sight, 

Seizes  the  mind  that  fain  would  take  its  flight, 

Bids  it  look  in  : — and  first  Uriah  stood, 

Armed  for  the  fight,  as  yet  unstained  with  blood  ; 

Courage  and  care  were  on  his  brow  combined, 

To  show  the  hero  and  the  patriot  joined  : 

Next,  pale  and  lifeless,  on  his  warlike  shield, 

The  soldiers  bore  him  from  the  bloody  field. 

"And  is  it  thus  !''  the  royal  mourner  said, 

"And  has  my  hand  performed  the  dreadful  deed? 

Was  I  the  wretch  that  gave  thee  to  the  foe, 

And  bade  thee  sink  beneath  the  impending  blow  ? 

Bade  every  friend  and  hero  leave  thy  side  ? 

Open,  O  earth !  and  in  thy  bosom  hide 

A  guilty  wretch  who  wishes  not  to  live  ; 

Who  cannot,  dares  not,  ask  for  a  reprieve  ; 

So  black  a  crime  just  Heaven  will  not  forgive  ! 

Justice  arrests  thy  coming  mere}*,  Lord  ; 

Strike  then,  O  strike,  unsheathe  thy  dreadful  sword  : 

Accursed  forever  be  the  hated  day, 

That  led  my  soul  from  innocence  astray  ; 

O  may  the  stars,  on  that  detested  hour, 


SARAH  PORTER.  15 


Shed  all  their  influence  with  malignant  power, 
Darkness  and  sorrows  jointly  hold  their  reign, 
When  time,  revolving,  brings  it  round  again. 
Unhappy  man  ! — ah  !  whither  shall  I  turn  ? 
Like  Cain,  accurst,  must  I  forever  mourn? 
On  beds  of  silk  in  vain  I  seek  repose, 
Uriah's  shade  forbids  my  eyes  to  close  ; 
No  bars  exclude  him — to  no  place  confined, 
Eager  he  still  pursues  my  flying  mind  : 
Not  all  the  crowd  that  bow  at  my  approach, 
Nor  guards  that  thicken  round  the  gilded  couch, 
Can  with  their  arms,  or  martial  air,  affright, 
Or  drive  the  phantom  from  my  wearied  sight. 

0  happy  day  !  when,  blest  with  Eglah's  charms, 

1  woo'd  no  other  beaut}T  to  my  arms  ; 

No  court's  licentious  jo3's  did  then  molest 

My  peaceful  mind,  nor  haunt  my  tranquil  breast. 

A  glitt'ring  crown  !  thou  poor,  fantastic  thing  ! 

What  solid  satisfaction  canst  thou  bring? 

Once,  far  removed  from  all  the  toils  of  state, 

In  groves  I  slept — no  guards  around  me  wait : 

Oh  !  how  delicious  was  the  calm  retreat ! 

Sweet  groves  !  with  birds  and  various  flowers  stored  : 

Where  nature  furnished  out  my  frugal  board  ; 

The  pure,  unstained  spring,  my  thirst  allayed  ; 

No  poisoned  draught,  in  golden  cups  conveyed, 

Was  there  to  dread.     Return,  ye  happy  hours, 

Ye  verdant  shades,  kind  nature's  pleasing  bowers, 

Inglorious  solitude,  again  return, 

And  heal  the  breast  with  pain  and  anguish  torn 

God  !  let  thy  mercy,  like  the  solar  ray, 

Break  forth  and  drive  these  dismal  clouds  away ; 

Oh  !  send  its  kind  enlivening  warmth  on  one 

Who  sinks^  who  dies,  beneath  thy  dreadful  frown  : 

Thus  fares  the  wretch  at  sea,  by  tempests  tost, 

Sands,  hurricanes,  and  rocks,  proclaim  him  lost ; 

With  eager  eyes  he  views  the  peaceful  shore, 

And  longs  to  rest  where  billows  cease  to  roar : 

Of  wanton  winds  and  waves  I've  been  the  sport, 

Oh !  when  shall  I  attain  the  wished-for  port? 

Or  might  I  bear  the  punishment  alone, 

Nor  hear  the  lovely  infant's  piteous  moan  ; 

My  sins  upon  the  dying  child  impressed, 

The  dreadful  thought  forbids  my  soul  to  rest, 

In  mercy,  Lord,  thy  humble  suppliant  hear, 

Oh  !  give  the  darling  to  my  ardent  prayer  ! 


16  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Cleanse  me  from  sin — oh  !  graciously  forgive  ; 
Blest  with  thy  love,  oh  !  let  thy  servant  live  : 
Thy  smiles  withdrawn,  what  is  the  world  to  me? 
My  hopes,  my  JO3'S,  are  placed  alone  on  thee  : 
Oh !  let  thy  love,  to  this  desponding  heart, 
One  ray,  at  least,  of  heavenly  love  impart." 


JSabtti  ISberett 

This  poet  was  born  In  Princeton,  Mass.,  in  1769.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth 
College  in  1795,  on  which  occasion  he  delivered  a  valedictory  poem.  While  a 
teacher  in  Xew  Ipswich  he  wrote  the  school-bov  recitation  which  has  been  so  well 
known.  He  became  a  lawver  and  practised  his  profession  several  years  in  Ani- 
herst.  In  1804  he  delivered  a  masonic  oration  in  Washington,  this  state.  He  died 
in  1813. 


AN  ODE. 

Why  veiled,  0  Sun  !  Thy  day  absorbed 

Where  fled  thy  light?  In  gloom  of  night. 

Has  thy  Creator  quenched  thy  fires, 
Or  dost  thou  mourn  while  he  expires  ? 

Ah,  heathen  sage  !  Nor  moon,  nor  stars, 

Thy  worshipped  sun,  That  round  him  run  ; 

Nor  science,  lucid  as  their  spheres, 
Can  solve  thy  doubts,  or  calm  thy  fears. 

On  Calvar}7  Why  nature  breaks 

Behold  the  cause,  Her  stated  laws, 

And  groans  unconscious  of  the  plan, 
While  God  reveals  his  love  to  man. 

The  veil  is  rent ;  The  rocks  are  cleft ; 

Earth's  caverns  quake  ;  The  dead  awake  ; 

As  Jesus,  His  incarnate  Son, 
In  dying  anguish,  cries  "  'Tis  done." 

"  'Tis  done,"  O  man !  The  way  to  life 

The  heavens  resound :  For  thee  is  found  ; 

And  ye,  like  him,  who  dies,  to  save, 
Shall  conquer  death  and  burst  the  grave. 


EXTRACT 

From  a  valedictory  poem  at  Dartmouth  College. 
The  muse  prophetic  views  the  coming  day, 
When  federal  laws  beyond  the  line  shall  sway ; 
Where  Spanish  indolence  inactive  lies, 
And  every  art  and  every  virtue  dies ; 


DAVID  EVERETT.  17 


Where  pride  and  avarice  their  empire  hold, 
Ignobly  great,  and  poor  amid  their  gold, — 
Columbia's  genius  shall  the  mind  inspire, 
And  fill  each  breast  with  patriotic  fire. 
Nor  east  nor  western  oceans  shall  confine 
The  generous  flame  that  dignifies  the  mind  ; 
O'er  all  the  earth  shall  Freedom's  banner  wave, 
The  tyrant  blast  and  liberate  the  slave : 
Plenty  and  peace  shall  spread  from  pole  to  pole, 
Till  earth's  grand  family  possess  one  soul. 


LINES 

Spoken  at  a  school  exhibition  by  a  boy  seven  years  old. 

You'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age 

To  speak  in  public  on  the  stage  ; 

And  if  I  chance  to  fall  below 

Demosthenes  or  Cicero, 

Don't  view  me  with  a  critic's  eye, 

But  pass  my  imperfections  by. 

Large  streams  from  little  fountains  flow ; 

Tall  oaks  from  little  acorrts  grow ; 

And  though  I  now  am  small  and  young, 

Of  judgment  weak  and  feeble  tongue, 

Yet  all  great  learned  men,  like  me, 

Once  learned  to  read  their  A,  B,  C. 

But  why  may  not  Columbia's  soil 

Bear  men  as  great  as  Britain's  isle? 

Exceed  what  Greece  and  Rome  have  done  ? 

Or  any  land  beneath  the  sun  ? 

Mayn't  Massachusetts  boast  as  great 

As  any  other  sister  State  ? 

Or  where's  the  town,  go  far  and  near, 

That  does  not  find  a  rival  here  ? 

Or  where's  the  boy  but  three  feet  high 

Who's  made  improvement  more  than  I  ? 

These  thoughts  inspire  my  youthful  mind 

To  be  the  greatest  of  mankind : 

Great,  not  like  Csesar,  stained  with  blood, 

But  only  great  as  I  am  good. 


This  poet  was  born  in  Walpole,  April  22, 1771.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth  Col 
lege  in  1796,  after  which  he  studied  law.  In  1801  he  visited  England,  and  returned 
in  1804.  He  went  to  Brattleboro',  Vt.,  in  1812,  where  he  edited  the  Reporter. 


18  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Afterwards  he  went  to  Bellows  Falls.  Vt.,  and  edited  the  Intelligencer.  lie  re 
mained  there  till  182-2,  publishing  in  the  meantime  a  volume  of  poetry.  He  then 
removed  to  Boston  to  commence  the  publication  of  the  New  England  Farmer, 
which  attained  a  high  rank  in  Ms  hands.  He  died  in  that  city,  Xov.  11,  1837. 


FLATTERY. 

Miss  Ann,  you  are,  it  seems  to  me, 

An  essence  all  etherial ; 
The  brightest  being  that  can  be, 

Entirely  immaterial. 

A  pencil  tipped  with  solar  rays 

Tour  charms  could  scarcely  blazon  ; 

Contrasted  with  your  beauty's  blaze 
Bright  Sol's  a  pewter  basin. 

Transcendent  little  sprig  of  light ! 

If  rhymes  are  always  true, 
An  angel  is  an  ugly  sprite 

Compared  to  sylph  like  you. 

You  frowning  tell  me  :  "This  indeed 

Is  flattery  past  all  bearing ; 
I  ne'er  before  did  hear  nor  read 

Of  any  quite  so  glaring." 

Yes,  this  is  flattery,  sure  enough, 

And  its  exaggeration 
May  teach  you  how  to  hold  such  stuff 

In  utter  detestation. 

Should  beaux  your  ladj'ship  accost 
With  something  like  this  flummery, 

Tell  them  their  labor  will  be  lost, 
For  this  transcends  their  mummer}1. 

The  man  whose  favor's  worth  a  thought, 

To  flattery  can't  descend  ; 
The  servile  sycophant  is  not 

Your  lover  nor  your  friend. 


THE  COURSE  OF  CULTURE. 

Survey  the  world,  through  every  zone, 

From  Lima  to  Japan, 
In  lineaments  of  light  'tis  shown 

That  culture  makes  the  man. 


THOMAS  GREEN  FESSENDEN.  19 

By  manual  culture  one  attains 

What  industry  may  claim, 
Another's  mental  toil  and  pains 

Attenuate  his  frame. 

Some  plough  and  plant  the  teeming  soil, 

Some  cultivate  the  arts  ; 
And  some  devote  a  life  of  toil 

To  tilling  heads  and  hearts. 
Some  train  the  adolescent  mind, 

While  buds  of  promise  blow, 
And  see  each  nascent  twig  inclined 

The  wajT  the  tree  should  grow. 

The  first  man,  and  the  first  of  men 

Were  tillers  of  the  soil, 
And  that  was  mercy's  mandate  then, 

Which  destined  men  to  moil. 
Indulgence  preludes  fell  attacks 

Of  merciless  disease, 
And  sloth  extends  on  fiery  racks 

Her  listless  devotees. 

Hail,  horticulture!  heaven-ordained, 

Of  every  art  the  source, 
Which  man  has  polished,  life  sustained, 

Since  Time  commenced  his  course. 
Where  waves  thy  wonder-working  wand, 

What  splendid  scenes  disclose  ! 
The  blasted  heath,  the  arid  strand, 

Out-bloom  the  gorgeous  rose. 

Even  in  the  seraph-sex  is  thy 

Munificence  described  ; 
And  Milton  says  in  lady's  eye 

Is  heaven  identified. 
A  seedling  sprung  from  Adam's  side, 

A  most  celestial  shoot ! 
Became  of  Paradise  the  pride, 

And  bore  a  world  of  fruit. 

The  lily,  rose,  carnation,  blent 

By  Flora's  magic  power, 
And  tulip,  feebly  represent 

So  elegant  a  flower : 
Then  surely,  bachelors,  ye  ought 

In  season  to  transfer 

Some  sprig  of  this  sweet  "touch-me  not," 
To  grace  your  own  parterre. 


20  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  every  gardener  should  be  proud, 

With  tenderness  and  skill, 
If  haply  he  ma}'  be  allowed 

This  precious  plant  to  till. 
All  that  man  has,  had,  hopes,  can  have, 

Past,  promised,  or  possessed, 
Are  fruits  which  culture  gives  or  gave 

At  industry's  behest. 


THE  INDEPENDENT  FARMER. 

It  may  very  truty  be  said 

That  his  is  a  noble  vocation, 
Whose  industry  leads  him  to  spread 

About  him  a  little  creation. 

He  lives  independent  of  all, 

Except  the  Omnipotent  donor ; 
Has  always  enough  at  his  call, — 

And  more  is  a  plague  to  its  owner. 

He  works  with  his  hands,  it  is  true, 
But  happiness  dwells  with  employment, 

And  he  who  has  nothing  to  do 

Has  nothing  by  way  of  enjoj'ment.j 

His  labors  are  mere  exercise, 

Which  saves  him  from  pains  and  physicians ; 
Then,  farmers,  you  truly  may  prize 

Your  own  as  the  best  of  conditions. 

From  competence,  shared  with  content, 

Since  all  true  felicity  springs, 
The  life  of  a  farmer  is  blent 

With  more  real  bliss  than  a  king's. 


THE  FARMER. 

Let  moneyed  blockheads  roll  in  wealth, 
Let  proud  fools  strut  in  state, 

My  lands,  my  homestead  and  m}*  health 
Place  me  above  the  great. 

I  never  fawn  nor  fib  nor  feign, 
To  please  old  Mammon's  fiy  ; 

But  independence  still  maintain 
On  all  beneath  the  sky. 


HOSEA  BALLOU.  21 


Thus  Cincinnatus,  at  his  plough, 

With  more  true  glory  shone 
Than  Csesar,  with  his  laurell'd  brow, 

His  palace  and  his  throne. 

Tumult,  perplexity  and  care 

Are  bold  Ambition's  lot ; 
But  those  intruders  never  dare 

Disturb  my  peaceful  cot. 

Blest  with  bare  competence,  I  find 

What  monarchs  never  can. 
Health  and  tranquillity  of  mind, 

Heaven's  choicest  gifts  to  man. 

The  toil  with  which  I  till  the  ground 

For  exercise  is  meet, 
Is  mere  amusement  which  is  crowned 

With  slumber  sound  and  sweet. 

But  those  who  toil  in  Pleasure's  rounds, 
Sweet  slumber  soon  destroy  ; 

Soon  find  on  Dissipation's  grounds 
A  grave  for  every  joy. 


Hosea  Ballou,  the  son  of  Rev.  Maturin  Ballon,  a  Baptist  clergyman,  was  born  in 
Richmond,  April  30, 1771.  He  was  educated  at  Chesterfield  Academy,  and  adopting 
the  views  of  the  Universalists,  began  to  preach  at  twenty  years  of  age.  In  1796  he 
accepted  a  call  to  Barnard,  Vt.  Six  years  afterwards  he  removed  to  Portsmouth, 
and  remained  there  six  years,  and  then  went  to  Salem,  Mass.  In  1817  he  became 
pastor  of  the  Second  Universalist  Society  in  Boston.  He  resided  there  till  his  death, 
which  occurred  on  the  7th  of  June,  1852.  He  published  a  volume  of  verses,  mostly 
hymns. 


BLESSINGS  OF  CHRIST'S  UNIVERSAL  REIGN. 

When  God  descends,  with  men  to  dwell, 

And  all  creation  makes  anew, 
What  tongue  can  half  the  wonders  tell? 

What  eye  the  dazzling  glories  view  ? 

Zion,  the  desolate,  again 

Shall  see  her  lands  with  roses  bloom  ; 
And  Carmel's  mount,  and  Sharon's  plain, 

Shall  yield  their  spices  and  perfume. 

Celestial  streams  shall  gently  flow  ; 

The  wilderness  shall  joyful  be  ; 
Lilies  on  parched  ground  shall  grow  ; 

And  gladness  spring  on  every  tree  ; 


•2-2  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  weak  be  strong,  the  fearful  bold, 

The  deaf  shall  hear,  the  dumb  shall  sing, 

The  lame  shall  walk,  the  blind  behold  ; 
And  joy  through  all  the  earth  shall  ring. 

Monarchs  and  slaves  shall  meet  in  love  ; 

Old  pride  shall  die,  and  meekness  reign, — 
When  God  descends  from  worlds  above, 

To  dwell  with  men  on  earth  again. 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 

When  m}'  astonished  e}'es  behold, 
My  Maker's  works  below,  above, 

And  read  his  name  in  lines  of  gold, 
I  surety  know  that  "God  is  love." 

When  I  observe  his  written  word, 
And  when  his  gift  of  grace  I  prove, 

With  joyful  heart  I  praise  the. Lord, 

For,  saith  the  scriptures,  "God  is  love." 

What  gentle  streams  of  pleasure  roll ! 

What  quickening  from  n^stic  dove  ! 
Now  peace  divine  fills  all  m}"  soul, 

And  I  can  shout  that  "God  is  love." 

Now  heavenly  courage  I'll  put  on, 
For  far  away  my  fears  it  drove ; 

I'll  bow  before  the  living  Son, 

And  loud  proclaim  my  "God  is  love." 


PhilJp  Carrigan  was  a  son  of  Dr.  Philip  Carrigan.  He  was  born  in  Concord,  Feb 
ruary  29,  probably  in  1772,  and  was  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1794.  He 
studied  law  and  settled  in  his  native  town.  In  1805,  and  the  three  years  following, 
he  was  Secretary  of  State.  He  prepared  a  valuable  map  of  the  State,  which  was 
published  in  1816.  In  1806  he  delivered  a  poem  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 
at  Dartmouth  College.  He  died  in  Concord,  March  15, 1S42. 


LAFAYETTE'S  RETURN. 

North  and  South  and  East  and  West, 
A  cordial  welcome  have  addressed 
Loud  and  warm,  the  Nation's  Guest, 

Dear  Son  of  Liberty  ; 

Whom  tyrants  cursed  when  Heaven  approved, 
And  millions  long  have  mourned  and  loved, 
He  comes,  by  fond  entreaties  moved, 

The  Granite  State  to  see. 


PHILIP  CARRIUAN.  23 


Our  mountains  tower  with  matchless  pride, 
And  mighty  torrents  from  them  glide, 
And  wintry  tempests,  far  and  wide, 

Ridge  deep  our  drifts  of  snow ; 
Yet  does  our  hardening  climate  form 
Patriots  with  hearts  as  bold  and  warm, 
At  social  feast,  or  battle  storm, 

As  e'er  met  friend  or  foe. 

Bliss  domestic,  rank,  wealth,  ease, 
Our  guest  resigned  for  stormy  seas, 
And  for  war's  more  storm}1-  breeze, 

To  make  our  country  free  ; 
And  potent  Britain  saw,  dismayed, 
The  lightning  of  his  virgin  blade 
To  Freedom  flash  triumphant  aid, 

But  death  to  Tyranny. 

Now,  in  his  life's  less  perilous  wane, 
He  has  re-crossed  the  Atlantic  main, 
Preserved  by  Heaven,  to  greet  again 

The  land  he  bled  to  save  ; 
And  those  who  with  him,  hand  in  hand, 
Fought  'neath  his  mighty  sire's  command, — 
Alas  !  how  thinned  that  gallant  band*, 

Band  of  the  free  and  brave ! 

Angels  'tis  said,  at  times  have  stood 

Unseen  among  the  great  and  good, 

For  county's  rights  who  shed  their  blood, 

Nor  has  their  influence  ceased. 
For  party  feuds  far  off  are  driven, 
Foes  reconciled  and  wrongs  forgiven, 
And  this  green  spot  of  earth  made  Heaven, 

For  these  old  heroes'  feast. 

They've  met  in  war  to  toil  and  bleed, 
They've  met  in  peace,  their  country  freed  ; 
And  unborn  millions  will  succeed 

To  their  dower,  the  Rights  of  Man  ; 
The  patriot  of  both  hemispheres, 
Though  first  on  earth,  deems  all  his  peers, 
Who  joined  his  war-cry  with  their  cheers, 

Where  raged  the  battle's  van. 

Such  were  the  men  our  land  did  save, 
Nor  e'er  can  reach  oblivion's  wave, 
(Though  booming  o'er  the  statesman's  grave,) 
Our  deep  redeemless  debt. 


24  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

No  !  Morriinack  may  cease  to  flow, 
And  our  White  Mountains  sink  below  ; 
But  naught  can  cancel  what  we  owe 
To  them  and  Lafayette. 


William  ftterdjant  ixicftartrson. 

William  M.  Richardson,  LL.  P.,  was  born  in  Pelham,  January  4, 1774.  He  grad 
uated  at  Harvard  College  in  1797;  was  a  member  of  Congress,  1811-M4;  Chief  Jus 
tice  Supreme  Court  of  this  State,  1816- '38.  He  died  in  Chester,  March,  1838. 


THE  RIVER  MERRIMACK. 

Sweet  Merrimack  !  th}-  gentle  stream 

Is  fit  for  better  poet's  theme,     . 

For  rich  thy  waves  and  gentle  too, 

As  Rome's  proud  Tiber  ever  knew  ; 

And  thy  fair  current's  placid  swell 

Would  flow  in  classic  song  as  well. 

Yet  on  thy  banks,  so  green,  so  sweet, 

Where  wood-nymphs  dance  and  naiads  meet, 

E'en  since  creation's  earliest  dawn, 

No  son  of  song  was  ever  born ; 

No  muse's  fairy  feet  e'er  trod 

Thy  modest  margin's  verdant  sod  ; 

And  'mid  Time's  silent,  feathery  flight, 

Like  some  003-  maiden,  pure  as  light, 

Sequestered  in  some  blest  retreat, 

Far  from  the  city  and  the  great, 

Thy  virgin  waves  the  vales  among 

Have  flowed  neglected  and  unsung. 

Yet,  as  the  sailor,  raptured,  hails 

His  native  shores,  his  native  vales, 

Returning  home  from  many  a  day 

Of  tedious  absence,  far  away 

From  her  whose  charms  alone  control 

The  warm  affections  of  his  soul ; 

Thus,  from  life's  stormy,  troubled  sea, 

My  heart  returns  to  visit  thee. 

Sweet  Nymph,  whose  fair}-  footsteps  press, 
And  viewless  fingers  gaily  dress, 
By  moonlight  or  by  Hesper's  beam, 
The  verdant  banks  of  this  sweet  stream  : 
Who  oft  by  twilight's  doubtful  ray, 
With  wood-nymphs  and  with  naiad  gay, 
Lead'st  up  the  dance  in  merry  mood. 


WILLIAM  MERCHANT  RICHARDSON.  25 

To  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  flood  ; 

All  hail  once  more  !  'tis  many  a  year 

Since  last  I  came  to  meet  thee  here, 

And  much  it  glads  my  heart  once  more 

To  meet  thee  on  this  pleasant  shore  ; 

For  here  in  youth,  when  hope  was  high, 

My  breast  a  stranger  to  a  sigh, 

And  my  blood  danced  through  every  vein, 

Amid  the  jolly,  sportive  train 

Of  youths  and  maids,  who  gathering  round, 

Danced  to  the  flute's  entrancing  sound, 

I  felt  thy  powerful  influence, 

The  bliss  our  bosoms  felt,  dispense  ; 

Delight  on  all  our  bosoms  pour, 

And  make  our  hearts  with  joy  brim  o'er. 

Thy  fingers  on  each  virgin's  cheek 

Impressed  the  witching  "dimple  sleek," 

Bade  magic  smiles  and  blushes  meet 

In  mixture  ravishingly  sweet, 

And  many  a  face  a  charm  possess, 

Which  then  I  felt — but  can't  express. 

Blest  days,  alas  !  forever  past, 

Sunk  in  the  ocean  dim  and  vast 

Of  years,  whose  dread  profundity 

Is  pierced  by  none  but  Fancy's  eye, 

Your  joj's  like  gems  of  pearly  light, 

There  hallowed  shine  in  Fancy's  sight. 

What  though  beside  the  gentle  flood, 

Bedewed  with  tears  and  wet  with  blood, 

Profusely  shed  by  iron  Mars 

In  wild  Ambition's  cruel  wars, 

No  evergreen  of  glor}-  waves 

Among  the  fallen  warriors'  graves? 

What  though  the  battle's  blood}7  rage, 

Where  mad  contending  chiefs  engage, 

The  nymphs  that  rule  these  banks  so  green 

And  naiads  soft  have  never  seen  ? 

What  though  ne'er  tinged  this  crystal  ^ave 

The  rich  blood  of  the  fallen  brave  ? 

No  deathless  deed  by  hero  done, 

No  battle  lost,  no  victory  won  ; 

Here  ever  walked  with  praise  or  blame, 

The  loud  uplifted  trump  of  fame. 

Here  beauteous  Spring  profusely  showers 

A  wilderness  of  sweets  and  flowers. 


26  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  spreading  oak  of  royal  line, 

The  stately  elm  and  towering  pine, 

Here  cast  a  purer,  happier  shade 

Than  blood-stained  laurels  ever  made. 

No  wailing  ghosts  of  warriors  slain, 

Along  these  peaceful  shores  complain*; 

No  maniac  virgin  crazed  with  care, 

The  mournful  victim  of  despair  ; 

While  pangs  unutterable  swell 

Her  heart,  vto  view  the  spot  where  fell 

The  youth  who  all  her  soul  possessed, 

She  tears  her  hair  or  beats  her  breast. 

Ne'er  victor  lords,  nor  conquered  slaves, 

Disgraced  these  banks,  disgraced  these  waves  ; 

But  freedom,  peace  and  plenty  here, 

Perpetual  bless  the  passing  year. 


Baniel 


Daniel  Webster  was  born  in  Salisbury,  January  18, 1782.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1801.  He  became  a  lawyer;  was  a  member  of  Congress,  1813-17, 
1823-27 ;  U.  S.  Senator,  1827-39 ;  1845-50 ;  Secretary  of  State  U.  S.,  1841-42 ;  1850-52.  He 
died  in  Marshfleld,  Mass.,  October  24, 1852.  While  at  College  he  published  two  blank 
Terse  poems  of  considerable  length.  Two  extracts  are  here  given  from  the  one  on 
Human  Redemption.  In  1825  he  lost  a  son  named  Charles.  On  that  occasion  he 
composed  a  short  poem  which  he  enclosed  in  a  letter  to  his  wife. 


LINES  TO  A  DEPARTED  SON. 

My  sou,  thou  wast  my  heart's  delight, 
Thy  morn  of  life  was  gay  and  cheery  ; 

That  morn  has  rushed  to  sudden  night, 
Thy  father's  house  is  sad  and  dreary. 

I  held  thee  on  my  knee,  my  son, 

And  kissed  thee  laughing,  kissed  thee  weeping ; 
But  ah  !  thy  little  day  is  done, 

Thou'rt  with  my  angel  sister  sleeping. 

The  staff  on  which  my  years  should  lean 
Is  broken  ere  those  years  come  o'er  me  ; 

My  funeral  rites  thou  shouldst  have  seen, 
But  thou  art  in  the  tomb  before  me. 

Thou  rear'st  to  me  no  filial  stone, 

No  parent's  grave  with  tears  beholdest ; 

Thou  art  my  ancestor,  my  son  ! 

And  stand'st  in  heaven's  account  the  oldest. 

On  earth  my  lot  was  soonest  cast, 
Thy  generation  after  mine  ; 


DANIEL  WEBSTER.  27 


Thou  hast  thy  predecessor  past, 
Earlier  eternity  is  thine. 

I  should  have  set  before  thine  eyes 

The  road  to  heaven,  and  showed  it  clear  ; 

But  thou  untaught  springest  to  the  skies, 
And  leavest  thy  teacher  lingering  here. 

Sweet  seraph,  I  would  learn  of  thee, 
And  hasten  to  partake  thy  bliss  ; 

And  O  !  to  thy  world  welcome  me, 
As  first  I  welcomed  thee  to  this. 

Dear  angel,  thou  art  safe  in  heaven  ; 

No  prayers  for  thee  need  more  be  made  ; 
Oh  !  let  thy  prayers  for  those  be  given 

Who  oft  have  blest  thy  infant  head. 

My  Father !  I  beheld  thee  born, 

And  led  thy  tottering  steps  with  care  ; 

Before  me  risen  to  heaven's  bright  morn, 
My  son,  my  father,  guide  me  there. 


FROM  "HUMAN  REDEMPTION." 

When  the  grand  period  in  the  eternal  mind, 

Long  predetermined,  had  arrived,  behold 

The  universe,  this  most  stupendous  mass 

Of  things,  to  instant  being  rose.     This  globe, 

For  light  and  heat  dependent  on  the  sun, 

By  power  supreme  was  then  ordained  to  roll 

And  on  its  surface  bear  immortal  man, 

Complete  in  bliss,  the  image  of  his  God. 

His  soul,  to  gentle  harmonies  attuned, 

Th'  ungoverned  rage  of  boisterous  passion  knew  not. 

Malice,  revenge  and  hate  were  then  unknown  ; 

Love  held  his  empire  in  the  human  heart — 

The  voice  of  love  alone  escaped  the  lip, 

And  gladdening  nature  echoed  back  the  strain. 

Oh  happy  state  !  too  happy  to  remain  : 

Temptation  comes,  and  man  a  victim  falls  ! 

Farewell  to  peace,  farewell  to  human  bliss, 

Farewell,  ye  kindred  virtues,  all  farewell ! 

Ye  flee  the  world,  and  seek  sublimer  realms. 

Passions  impetuous  now  possess  the  heart, 

And  hurry  every  gentler  feeling  thence. 


28  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Is  it  now  asked  why  man  for  slaughter  pants, 
Raves  with  revenge,  and  with  detraction  burns  ? 
Go  ask  of  ^Etna  why  her  thunders  roar, 
Wh}'  her  volcanoes  smoke,  and  why  she  pours 
In  torrents  down  her  side  the  igneous  mass 
That  hurries  men  and  cities  to  the  tomb  ! 
These  but  the  effects  of  bursting  fires  within, 
Convulsions  that  a're  hidden  from  our  sight 
And  bellow  under  ground.     Just  so  in  man, 
The  love  of  conquest  and  the  lust  of  power 
Are  but  the  effects  of  passion  unsubdued. 
To  avert  the  effects,  then,  deeply  strike  the  cause, 
O'ercome  the  rage  of  passion,  and  obtain 
The  empire  over  self.     This  once  achieved, 
Impress  fair  virtue's  precepts  on  the  heart, 
Teach  t'adore  his  God,  and  love  his  brother : 
War  then  no  more  shall  raise  the  rude  alarm, 
Widows  and  orphans  then  shall  sigh  no  more,  . 
Peace  shall  return,  and  man  again  be  blest. 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  HEART. 

If  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain 

We  keep  them  in  the  memory  of  the  brain  ; 

Names,  things,  and  facts — whate'er  we  knowledge  call, 

There  is  the  common  ledger  for  them  all ; 

And  images  on  this  cold  surface  traced 

Make  slight  impressions,  and  are  soon  effaced. 

But  we've  a  page  more  glowing  and  more  bright 
On  which  our  friendship  and  our  love  to  write ; 
That  these  may  never  from  the  soul  depart, 
We  trust  them  to  the  memory  of  the  heart. 
There  is  no  dimming — no  effacement  here  ; 
Each  new  pulsation  keeps  the  record  clear ; 
Warm,  golden  letters  all  the  tablet  fill, 
Nor  lose  their  lustre  till  the  heart  stands  still. 
LONDON,  NOVEMBER  19,  1839. 


WINTER. 

Happy  are  they  who  far  removed  from  war, 
And  all  its  train  of  woes,  in  tranquil  peace 
And  joyful  plenty,  pass  the  winter's  eve. 
Such  bliss  is  thine,  Columbia  !  Bless  thy  God  ! 
The  tqil  and  labor  of  the  year  now  o'er, 


WILLIAM  WALLACE.  29 

While  Sol  scarce  darts  a  glimmering,  trembling  beam, 
While  Boreas'  blast  blows  bleak  along  the  plain  ; 
Around  the  social  fire,  content  and  free, 
Thy  sons  shall  taste  the  sweets  Pomona  gives, 
Or  reap  the  blessings  of  domestic  ease 
Or  else,  in  transport,  tread  the  mountain  snows 
And  leap  the  craggy  cliff,  robust  and  strong — 
Till  from  the  lucid  chambers  of  the  South 
The  joyous  Spring  looks  forth  and  hails  the  world. 
1799. 


SHailace. 


Andrew  Wallace  was  a  native  of  Milford.  At  the  age  of  21  he  decided  upon  the 
profession  of  law,  entered  Dartmouth  College,  and  after  five  years'  study,  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  Hillsborough  County  Bar,  practising  at  Hancock.  Subsequently  he 
removed  to  Amherst,  and  for  many  years  served  as  Clerk  of  the  Hillsborough 
County  Courts.  He  represented  the  town  in  the  Legislature,  and  was  its  delegate 
in  the  State  Convention  of  1850,  for  the  revision  of  the  Constitution.  He  died  in 
1836,  at  the  age  of  74  years,  highly  esteemed  by  all. 


A  PRAYER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Parent  of  life,  great  source  of  good, 
To  thee  a  needy  suppliant  would, 
With  humble  boldness,  as  he  should, 

Address  this  short  petition  : 
Forgive  my  sins,  which  numerous  ai*e, 
Whose  weight  is  more  than  I  can  bear, 
My  life  in  mercy  to  me  spare, 
Be  thou  my  great  physician. 

My  sins  are  of  a  scarlet  dye, 

To  thee  for  vengeance  loud  they  ciy, 

While  on  this  couch  of  pain  I  lie, 

Bereft  of  consolation  ; 
Save  that  thy  grace  is  rich  and  free, 
Just  suiting  my  necessity, 
I  cry  for  mercy,  Lord  to  thee, 

And  pray  for  renovation. 

Restore  my  health,  renew  my  heart, 
Bid  every  sinful  thought  depart, 
Baffle  the  tempter's  wicked  art, 

And  grant  me  thy  salvation. 
So  shall  the  remnant  of  my  days 
Be  spent  in  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways, 
And  evermore  to  sing  thy  praise 

Shall  be  my  recreation. 


:>0  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

But  if  my  life  is  soon  to  end, 
O  God  of  mere}',  condescend 
To  be  my  Father,  Saviour,  Friend, 

And  grant  me  th}T  rich  favor. 
And  when  my  soul  shall  take  its  flight, 
May  chosen  bands  of  angels  bright 
Convey  it  to  the  realms  of  light, 

To  dwell  with  thee  forever. 


HYMN   OF  THANKSGIVING  FOR  RECOVERY   FROM 
SICKNESS. 

Giver  of  every  perfect  gift ! 
Restored  to  health,  again  I  lift 

To  thee  my  waiting  eyes  ; 
Attempts  at  praise,  devoid  of  art, 
The  incense  of  a  grateful  heart 

Thou  never  wilt  despise. 

To  me  thou  hast  compassion  shown, 
Thy  healing  mercy  I  have  known, 

When  none  but  thee  could  save  ; 
Thou  heard'st  me  when  in  great  distress, 
The  means  of  safety  thou  didst  bless, 

And  saved  me  from  the  grave. 

In  sickness  thou  didst  make  my  bed  ; 
At  thy  rebuke  my  fever  fled  ; 

My  pains  thou  didst  remove. 
O  may  thy  goodness  shown  to  me, 
Excite  my  thankfulness  to  thee, 

And  kindle  into  love. 

May  gratitude  and  holy  joy 
The  remnant  of  my  life  employ  ; 

And  may  renewing  grace 
Prepare  me  for  that  peaceful  rest, 
Which  is  reserved  for  the  blest 

Who  see  thee  face  to  face. 

When  nought  on  earth  can  me  avail, 
And  flesh  and  heart  entirely  fail, 

O  take  me  safely  o'er ; 
And  when  the  last  great  trump  shall  sound, 
May  I  in  safety  then  be  found 

On  Canaan's  happy  shore. 


NATHANIEL  HAZELTINE  CASTER.  31 

Katijaniel  3&a?eltine  barter. 

Nathaniel  H.  Carter,  who  was  born  at  the  "Iron  Works,"  Concord,  Sept.  17, 1787, 
was  one  of  the  earliest  teachers  of  the  poet  Longfellow.  Mr.  Carter  graduated  at 
Dartmouth  in  1811,  and  was  subsequently  widely  known  as  an  instructor  and  lit 
erary  gentleman.  Of  his  class  of  nfty-five  at  Hanover  one  only  was  living  at  the 
publication  of  the  1880  Quinquennial — James  S.  Goodwin,  M.  D.,  of  Portland,  Me. 
Mr.  Carter  was  Professor  of  Languages  at  Dartmouth  from  1817  to  1819;  travelled 
in  Europe  and  published  two  volumes  of  foreign  letters,  and  was  also  the  author 
of  "Pains  of  Imagination,"  and  other  productions  in  verse.  He  died  at  Marseilles, 
France,  Jan.  2, 1830.  Longfellow  attended  Mr.  Carter's  private  school  in  Portland, 
and  also  the  academy  in  that  place  taught  by  the  same. 


HYMM  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 

In  hymns  of  praise,  eternal  God  ! 

When  thy  creating  hand 
Stretched  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  abroad, 

And  meted  sea  and  land, 
The  morning  stars  together  sung, 
And  shouts  of  joy  from  angels  rung. 

Than  Earth's  prime  hour,  more  joj'ous  far 

Was  the  eventful  morn, 
When  the  bright  beam  of  Bethlehem's  star 

Announced  a  Saviour  born  ! 
Then  sweeter  strains  from  heaven  began, 
"Glory  to  God — good  will  to  man." 

Babe  of  the  manger !  can  it  be? 

Art  thou  the  Son  of  God  ? 
Shall  subject  nations  bow  the  knee, 

And  kings  obey  thy  nod  ? 
Shall  thrones  and  monarchs  prostrate  fall 
Before  the  tenant  of  a  stall  ? 

'Tis  He  !  the  limning  seraphs  cry, 
While  hovering,  drawn  to  earth  ; 

'Tis  He  !  the  shepherds'  songs  reply, 
Hail !  hail  Immanuel's  birth  ! 

The  rod  of  peace  those  hands  shall  bear, 

That  brow  a  crown  of  glory  wear. 

'Tis  He  !  the  Eastern  sages  sing, 
And  spread  their  golden  hoard  ; 

'Tis  He  !  the  hills  of  Sion  ring 
Hosanna  to  the  Lord  ! 

The  Prince  of  long  prophetic  }<ears 

To-day  in  Bethlehem  appears  ! 


32  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

He  comes  !  the  Conqueror's  march  begins  ; 

No  blood  his  banner  stains  ; 
He  comes  to  save  the  world  from  sins, 

And  break  the  captive's  chains  ! 
The  poor,  the  sick  and  blind  shall  bless 
The  Prince  of  Peace  and  Righteousness. 

Though  now  in  swaddling  clothes  he  lies, 
All  hearts  his  power  shall  own, 

When  he,  with  legions  from  the  skies, 
The  clouds  of  heaven  his  throne, 

Shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and  dead, 

And  strike  a  trembling  world  with  dread. 


TO  MY  NATIVE  STREAM. 

Hail !  hail  again,  my  native  stream, 
Scene  of  my  boyhood's  earliest  dream ! 
With  solitary  step  once  more 
I  tread  thy  wild  and  sj'lvan  shore, 
And  pause  at  every  turn,  to  gaze 
Upon  thy  dark  meandering  maze. 
What  though  obscure  thy  woody  source, 
What  though  unsung  thy  humble  course  ; 
What  if  no  lofty,  classic  name 
Give  to  thy  peaceful  waters  fame, 
Still  can  thy  rural  haunts  impart 
A  solace  to  this  saddened  heart. 

Since  last  with  thee  I  parted,  time 

Hath  borne  me  on  through  many  a  clime, 

Far  from  my  native  roof  that  stood 

Secluded  by  thy  murmuring  flood  ; 

And  I  in  distant  lands  have  roamed, 

Where  rolled  new  streams,  new  oceans  foamed  ; 

Along  the  Shannon,  Doon  and  Tay 

I've  sauntered  many  a  happy  day, 

And  sought  beside  the  Cam  and  Thames 

Memorials  of  immortal  names  ; 

Or  mingled  in  the  polished  train 

Of  fashion,  on  the  banks  of  Seine. 

And  I  have  seen  the  azure  Rhone 

Rush  headlong  from  his  Alpine  throne  ; 

Green  Mincius  and  silver  Po 

Through  vine-clad  vales  meandering  flow ; 

Sweet  Arno,  wreathed  in  summer  flowers, 


NATHANIEL  HAZELTINE  CASTER.  33 

Linger  amidst  Etrurian  bowers  ; 
And  the  old  Tiber's  yellow  tide 
Roll  to  the  sea  in  sullen  pride. 

In  climes  beneath  the  burning  zone, 

Mid  tangled  forests,  deep  and  lone, 

Where  fervid  skies  forever  glow 

And  the  soft  trade-winds  whispering  blow, 

My  roving  footsteps  too  have  pressed 

The  loveliest  island  of  the  west. 

There  Yumuri  winds,  deep  and  calm, 

Through  groves  of  citron  and  of  palm ; 

There  on  the  sluggish  waves  of  Juan, 

My  little  boat  hath  borne  me  on ; 

Or  up  Canimar's  silent  floods, 

Strown  with  the  blossoms  of  its  woods. 

Yet  not  the  less  my  native  stream, 
Art  thou  to  me  a  grateful  theme, 
Than  when,  in  heedless  boj^hood's  prime, 
I  wove  for  thee  the  rustic  rhyme, 
Ere  other  realms,  beyond  the  sea, 
Had  spread  their  fairest  charms  for  me, 
E'en  now,  alone  I  sit  me  down, 
Amidst  thy  woods,  with  autumn  brown, 
And  on  the  rustling  leaves  recline, 
Beneath  a  copse  of  whispering  pine, 
To  watch  thy  amber  current  run, 
Bright  with  November's  parting  sun. 
Around  with  eager  eye  I  trace 
The  charms  of  each  remembered  place — 
Some  fountain  gushing  from  the  bank, 
At  which,  in  youth,  I  knelt  and  drank — 
Yon  oak,  its  hoary  arms  that  rears, 
Scene  of  my  sports  in  bojish  years. 
Farewell !  farewell !  though  I  no  more 
May  ramble  on  thy  rural  shore, 
Still  shall  thy  quiet  wave  glide  on, 
When  he  who  watched  its  flow  is  gone, 
And  his  sole  epitaph  shall  be 
Inscribed  upon  some  aged  tree. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE— A  BURIAL  AT  SEA. 

From  his  room  to  the  deck  they  brought  him,  drest 
In  his  funeral  robes  by  his  own  request — 


34  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

With  his  boots  and  stock  and  garments  on, 
And  naught  but  the  breathing  spirit  gone  ; 
For  he  wished  that  a  child  might  coine  and  lay 
An  unstartled  hand  upon  his  clay. 
Then  they  wrapped  his  corse  in  a  tarry  sheet, 
To  the  dead,  as  Araby's  spices  sweet, 
And  prepared  him  to  seek  the  depths  below, 
Where  waves  never  beat,  nor  tempests  blow. 
No  steeds  with  their  nodding  plumes  were  here, 
No  sable  hearse,  and  no  coflined  bier, 
To  bear  with  pomp  and  parade  away 
The  dead,  to  sleep  with  his  kindred  clay. 
But  the  little  group,  a  silent  few, 
His  companions,  mixed  with  the  hardy  crew, 
Stood  thoughtful  around,  till  a  pra}'er  was  said 
O'er  the  corse  of  the  deaf,  unconscious  dead. 
Then  they  bore  his  remains  to  the  vessel's  side, 
And  committed  them  safe  to  the  dark  blue  tide. 
One  sullen  plunge,  and  the  scene  is  o'er — 
The  sea  rolled  on  as  it  rolled  before. 

In  that  classical  sea,  *  whose  azure  vies 

With  the  green  of  its  shores,  and  the  blue  of  its  skies, 

In  some  pearly  cave,  in  some  coral  cell, 

Oh  !  the  dead  shall  sleep,  as  sweetly,  as  well, 

As  if  shrined  in  the  pomp  of  Parian  tombs, 

Where  the  East  and  the  South  breathe  their  rich  perfumes  ; 

Nor  forgotten  shall  be  the  humble  one, 

Though  he  sleep  in  the  watery  waste  alone, 

When  the  trump  of  the  angel  sounds  with  dread, 

And  the  sea,  like  the  land,  gives  up  the  dead. 


This  distinguished  clergyman  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  Dec.  27, 1787,  and  was 
a  graduate  of  Harvard  College  in  1806.  In  1812  he  became  rector  of  St.  John's 
church  in  Portsmouth,  which  office  he  filled  with  ability  until  1857.  In  1851  ho  pub 
lished  a  volumu  entitled  "  The  Poetry  of  Religion  and  other  Poems."  He  died  in 
1868  at  the  age  of  eighty  years. 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

Written  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington,  Wednesday  noon,  July  ;>,  1845. 

Illustrious  Mountain  !  thou  dost  stand  alone, 
The  loftiest  sentinel  that  guards  our  land  ; 
The  glorious  image  of  the  Eternal  One  ; 
The  work  sublime  of  his  Almighty  hand. 

*  The  Mediterranean,  on  which  sea  the  author  was  then  sailing. 


CHARLES  BURROUGHS. 


On  eveiy  side  what  boundless  prospects  rise  ! 
."What  oceans  vast  of  mountain  scenery  ! 
What  dread  magnificence  of  earth  and  skies  ! 
What  regions  of  unrolled  immensity  ! 

Now,  raised  above  earth's  cares  and  toil  and  din, 

I  sit  serene,  to  holy  musings  given  ; 

To  soar  in  bliss  above  this  world  of  sin, 

And  hold  communion  with  the  hosts  of  heaven. 

Right  well  thy  granite  pile  baptized  has  been, 
In  name  of  one  whose  virtues  none  assail ; 
Who  towered  in  glory  o'er  his  fellow-men, 
Like  thy  proud  summit  o'er  the  humble  vale. 

Thy  rocks,  unhurt,  have  felt  the  tempest's  power, 
And  lightnings  harmless  have  played  round  thy  form  ; 
So,  too,  our  Washington  in  war's  fierce  hour 
Did  breast  each  shock,  and  triumph  o'er  each  storm. 

Our  nation's  boast !  Mount  of  eternal  stone  ! 
In  freedom,  truth,  and  virtue  ma}'  we  stand, 
Exalted  like  thyself  and  Washington, 
The  pride  and  honor  of  our  blessed  land  ! 


A  MORNING  PRAYER. 

As  from  my  couch  I  now  arise, 
And  grateful  view  the  earth  and  skies, 
Grant  me,  in  all  things,  Lord,  I  pray, 
Thy  glory  to  consult  this  da}'. 

At  meals,  at  prayer,  where'er  I  wend, 
What  hours  in  cares  or  joys  I  spend, 
Be  it  my  highest  joy  and  fame 
To  glorify  thy  blessed  name. 

Should  dangerous  snares  my  soul  assault, 
And  tempt  me  to  a  sin  or  fault, 
Oh,  keep  me  pure  in  act  and  word, 
Ever  to  honor  thee  my  Lord. 

Should  an}*  sufferer  I  ma}-  see 
Need  offices  of  love  from  me, 
Oh,  may  I  gladly  show  such  love, 
To  glorify  my  God  above. 


36  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Should  sickness,  sorrows,  trials,  woes, 
Befall  mo,  ere  this  day  shall  close, 
With  patience  may  I  bear  each  ill, 
And  bow  submissive  to  thy  will ! 

Dear  Lord,  may  all  my  labors  be 
Begun,  continued,  closed  in  thee, 
And  all  bring  gloiy  to  thy  name, 
And  give  me  endless  life  and  fame  ! 

Then,  when  her  pall  Night  o'er  me  throws, 
And  on  my  couch  I  seek  repose, 
I'll  bless  thee  that  I  still  do  live 
New  glories  to  thy  name  to  give. 


TOilliam  Blunter. 


William  Plumer.  the  oldest  child  of  William  and  Sally  Plumer,  was  born  in 
Kpping,  February  9,  1789.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  entered  Phillips  Exeter  Acad 
emy,  to  prepare  tor  College,  and  in  1805  entered  at  Harvard,  graduating  in  1809. 
He  studied  law  but  never  practised  the  profession  to  any  great  extent.  In  1818  he 
represented  his  native  town  in  the  Legislature  and  in  the  following  spring  was 
elected  a  representative  to  Congress,  which  office  he  retained  till  1825.  His  father 
was  United  States  Senator  from  this  State  in  1802,  and  Governor  of  the  State 
in  1S1-2,  and  again  in  1816  to  1819.  A  life  of  Gov.  Plumer  was  written  by  his  son. 
It  was  published  in  185(>.  He  wrote  poetry  at  an  early  age.  In  after  life  he  wrote  • 
and  published  for  private  distribution  four  volumes:  "Youth,"  "Manhood," 
"War  Song* and  Ballads  from  the  Old  Testament,"  and  "Ruth,  a  pastoral."  The 
two  first  mentioned  volumes  are  composed  chiefly  of  Sonnets,  and  are  admirable 
siuTiinens  of  euphonious  versification,  chaste  imagery  and  affluent  thought.  Mr. 
Plumer  died  September  18, 1854. 


THE  OCEAN. 
Bred  inland,  I  had  reached  my  fifteenth  year, 

Ere  yet  the  waves  of  ocean  on  my  sight 

Rolled  in  their  glory.     My  intense  delight, 
When  first  I  saw  those  living  waves  uprear 
Their  crested  heads,  lives  in  my  memory  clear, 

As  seen  but  yesterday.     Along  the  shore, 
The  storm  had  wrecked  its  fury ;  and  the  day, 

New  risen,  looked  wildly  on  the  angry  roar 
Of  ocean,  thundering  on  that  rock-girt  bay. 

My  spirit  was  not  by  the  scene  subdued, 
But  kindled  rather ;  as  dilating  wide 

It  rose,  o'er  ocean's  boundless  amplitude, 
In  might  of  mind,  with  power,  as  if  to  ride, 
Triumphant,  master-like,  above  the  tide. 

Again  I  sought  that  headland's  rocky  crest 
O'erlooking  ocean, — silent  and  alone, 
Where  human  habitation  there  was  none, 


Wl  LL I  AM  PL  UMER. 


Nor  work  of  man.     The  sun  was  in  the  west ; 
The  waves  lay  slumbering  on  the  parent  breast ; 

The  winds,  that  late  had  swept  the  deep,  were  flown, 
Each  to  his  cave  :  all  nature  seemed  at  rest. 

Thoughtful  I  watched  the  steady  ebb  and  flow, 
That,  far  as  eye  could  reach,  or  thought  extend, 

Rolled  on,  in  calmness,  and  in  power  below, 
Power  without  effort,  motion  without  end  ; 

Which,  as  I  gazed,  seemed,  God-like,  still  to  grow 
On  my  awed  thoughts, — till  ocean's  mildest  mood, 
Serene  in  grandeur,  all  mv  soul  subdued. 


THE  WHITE  HILLS. 

Thy  varied  scenes  blend  grace,  m}-  native  land  ! 

With  grandeur  ;  here  the  tranquil  lake, 

And  there  the  roaring  torrent, — streams  that  break, 
Impetuous  rushing,  from  thy  mountain  strand, 
With  headlong  force,  that  scoops  the  yielding  sand, 

And  wears  down  granite.     Lo  !  where  towering  high, 
His  shoulders  mantled  with  yon  swelling  cloud, 
Whence  lightings  flash,  and  thunders  roar  aloud, 

Mount  Washington  ascends  his  native  sky  ! 
Armed  with  the  avalanche,  he  sweeps  afar 

Man  and  his  works, — his  caverns  stored  with  snow, 
Coeval  with  the  rock.     Like  some  lone  star, 

Above  the  storm,  he  looks  on  earth  below, 
Serene  in  silence,  from  his  throne  on  high. 

Serene,  sublime,  in  silence,  from  thy  throne, 

Thou  look'st,  dread  monarch  !  wide  o'er  earth  around, 

Deep  awe  inspiring,  awe  till  now  unknown, 
Dark,  undefined,  that  humbles  to  the  ground 

Aspiring  pride.     Man's  spirit  bows  before 

Such  majesty  of  might,  nor  labors  more 

To  measure  strength  with  heaven.     Earth's  giant  brood, 

The  Titan  monsters,  on  their  beds  of  fire, 

Pressed  by  thy  stern  rebuke,  in  vain  aspire 
To  shake  thee  from  thy  seat:  the  lava  flood, 
Deep  heaving  from  the  centre,  unsubdued, 

Moves  not  tin'  steadfast  base  ;  nor  tempests  dire, 
Tornade,  and  torrent,  thundering  at  thy  side, 
Change  thy  stern  brow,  severe  in  lordly  pride. 

What  are  thy  thoughts,  proud  mount!  as  with  a  frown, 
Darkening  with  dread  the  distant  vales  below, 
Thou  lower' st,  thus  sternly,  on  our  march,  while  slow 


;i.s  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

We  climb  the  steep  ascent?     Would'st  thou  send  down 
Some  bolt  of  vengeance  from  tlnr  rocky  crown, 

To  crush  our  daring  course?     Proud  mountain  !  know 

Man  is  thy  master :  freely  shall  he  go 
High  o'er  thy  topmost  towers  ;  and  thou  shalt  find, 
In  these  frail  forms,  sublimities  of  mind, 

That  dwarf  thy  giant  bulk  ;  a  brighter  ray, 
More  lofty  heights,  enduring  powers,  that  last 
When  mountains  moulder,  and  their  pride  is  past. 

Mind  over  matter  holds  e'en  here  its  sway, 

E'en  here  commands,  while  subject  realms  obey. 

Alike  in  generous  feeling  and  high  thought 
The  grand,  the  loft}-,  the  sublime  we  see  : 
Yon  mighty  mountain  towers  less  gloriously, 

Than  he, — the  patriot  chief, — whom  nations  sought 
Vainl}'  to  honor  by  such  monument. 

In  native  virtue  great,  he  stood  the  same, 
When  fortune  frowned  on  worth,  as  when  she  lent 

Her  aid,  how  needless  !  to  augment  his  fame. 
Nor,  in  the  eye  of  reason,  is  the  toil 

Of  humbler  virtue,  in  the  vale  of  life, 

Where  modest  worth  can  passion's  onset  foil, 

And  truth  maintain  with  error's  hosts  the  strife, 
Less  glorious,  than  the  fame  that  patriots  gain 
In  camp,  or  court,  high  hall,  or  battle  plain. 


THE  ANCESTRAL  SEAT. 

By  filial  reverence  led,  I  seek  the  seat, 
Where  first  my  far  progenitor  his  home 
Found  in  this  western  wild,  and  reared  his  dome 

Hard  by  this  pleasant  stream.     Here  oft  his  feet 

Paced  the  lone  strand,  while  waves  from  ocean  beat 
Along  his  path, — those  waves,  so  late,  that  bore 
The  pilgrim  father  from  his  native  shore. 

Did  they  remind  him,  in  this  far  retreat, 

Of  England's  cultured  fields,  by  him  no  more 
Revisited'?     Belike,  till  tears  ran  o'er 

Of  tender  grief;  yet  he  nor  hardship  feared, 
Nor  savage  foe  ;  but  gladly,  on  the  rock, 
Fixed  here  his  home  ;  nor  time,  nor  tempest's  shock 

Hath  levelled  yet  the  structure  which  he  reared. 

Firm  builded,  like  his  own  strong  heart,  it  stands, 
By  time  compacted.     Twice  an  hundred  years 
Are  come,  and  gone  ;  yet  still  this  mansion  rears 


W1L  LI  AM  PL  UMER.  39 

Its  antique  front ;  nor  e'er  to  stranger  hands 
Hath  passed,  from  hardy  sire  to  blameless  son 
Transmitted  still,  as  each  his  course  has  run. 

South,  north,  and  west,  his  race  is  scattered  wide, 

Through  distant  states  ;  and  some  their  way  have  found 
To  public  scenes,  and  trod  life's  busy  round, 

A  moment,  in  high  halls  of  power  and  pride : 

Less  blest  than  those,  who  here  their  wishes  bound 

In  life's  low  vale  ;  like  stream,  whose  waters  sleep 
Calm  at  their  source,  yet,  borne  amid  the  sound 

Of  distant  broils,  run  headlong  o'er  the  steep. 

Mid  broils  of  public  life  it  runs  to  waste, 

The  stream  of  quiet  thought  and  feeling  kind, 
Which  else  might  pause,  to  fertilize  the  mind. 

But  happier  these,  at  fitting  distance  placed 

Alike  from  wealth  and  want,  their  course  have  traced, 
Age  after  age,  through  scenes  of  useful  toil, 
And  lowh'  virtues  :  they  the  victor's  spoil, 

The  pomp  of  power,  the  poet's  laurel  crown, 
Nor  sought,  nor  envied.     So  their  efforts  gained 

Health,  leisure,  competence,  they  sate  them  down 
With  these  content ;  nor  e'er  their  spirits  strained 

In  life's  mad  race,  for  fortune,  power,  renown. 
Enough,  while  virtue's  smile  their  labors  blest, 
If  love  waked  rapture  in  each  blameless  breast. 


LOVE. 
Love  is  the  blending  of  two  youthful  hearts, 

Each  in  the  other  fused  ;  union  entire 

Of  end  and  aim,  in  passion's  plowing  fire, 
Which  leaves  nor  fracture,  nor  discordant  parts  ; 
Abandonment  of  self,  and  selfish  arts, 

In  generous  transports  of  intense  desire, 
Intense  as  pure — a  feeling  infinite, 
W^hich  with  unbounded  service  would^requite 

The  boon  it  craves  ;  yet  cannot  less  require 
Than  heart  for  heart,  true  love's  undoubted  right. 
Modest  and  diffident,  and  of  his  might 

Distrustful  ever,  yet  doth  Love  aspire 
To  boundless  sway,  and  spreads  his  gentle  power 
Alike  o'er  lordly  hall  and  lowly  bower. 

I  tire  of  days  in  loveless  labor  past, 

By  beauty's  smile  unblest.     Man  was  not  made 
For  selfish  joy  or  sorrow  :  sad,  o'ercast, 


40  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

With  hopes  that  fade,  and  joys  that  wither  fast, 
He  droops,  untended,  in  the  lonely  shade. 
His  paradise  on  earth,  his  heaven  portrayed, 

Is  woman's  unbought  love  :  all  earth  beside 

Would  dark  and  worthless  prove,  were  this  denied. 
For  ne'er  ambition's  spoils,  nor  heaps  of  gain 

The  longings  of  desire  could  sate,  or  hush 

The  heart's  wild  transports,  throbbing  to  attain 

True  bliss  :  but  oh  !  when  love's  warm  currents  gush 
From  kindred  hearts  commingling,  man  again 
Finds  Eden's  primal  bliss,  else  sought  in  vain. 


THE  WEDDING. 

"And  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife" — so  said, 

In  solemn  tone,  our  reverend  guide,  as  still, 
Hand  linked  in  hand,  he  held  us — "ye  are  wed  : 

The  twain  henceforth  are  one."     Oh  !  what  a  thrill 
Ran  through  my  being  then,  of  mingled  dread 

And  joyous  transport;  dread,  lest  I  should  prove 
For  that  high  trust  unworthy  ;  joy,  to  find 

The  cherished  vision  of  my  earnest  love 
No  dream  of  fancy  now,  but  fixed,  inshrined, 
Where  inclination  still,  with  willing  mind, 

May  bend  at  duty's  altar.     I  am  now 
No  more,  as  erst,  alone  ;  there  beats  for  me 

One  warm  true  heart,  that  feels  the  mutual  vow 
To  live  in  love  unchanged,  though  bound  yet  free. 


WEDDED  LOVE. 

The  heart-felt  joys  serene  of  wedded  life, 

(Theme  hard  to  treat,  which  poets  seldom  sing,) 
May  I,  unblamed,  express?  or  dare  to  bring 

To  public  gaze,  mid  scenes  of  vulgar  strife, 

Charms  that  adorn  the  matron  and  the  wife  ? 
Weak  words  but  ill  express  the  jo3-s  that  spring 
Spontaneous,  hovering  still,  on  gentle  wing, 

O'er  wedded  love.     Howe'er  with  feeling  rife, 
Silence  may  best  that  sacred  theme  befit ; 
The  aim,  so  oft,  of  rude  sarcastic  wit, 

From  ribald  tongues,  and  hearts  that  never  felt 
How  passion,  rising  into  perfect  love, 
Repels  all  grossness,  as  it  soars  above, 

In  virtue's  fires,  refining  while  they  melt. 


WILLIAM  PLUME R.  41 


The  loving  heart  is  sorrowful  at  thought 
Of  joy  unshared,  at  pleasure  that  confers 
Delight  on  self  alone  ;  but  leaps  to  hers, 

Whose  kindred  soul,  with  tender  feeling  fraught, 

Its  inmost  being  hath  with  his  inwrought. 
Whate'er  the  passion  either  bosom  stirs, 
Moves  both  alike,  and  equal  warmth  infers  ; 

To  him  'tis  pleasure,  or  to  her  'tis  nought. 
Thus  interfused,  and  blended  into  one, 

Their  mingled  streams  of  mutual  feelings  flow  ; 
Enlarging,  and  enriched,  as  on  they  run, 

BJT  time,  by  distance  deepened  ;  till  they  know- 
No  adverse  purpose,  no  desire  but  this, 
That  each  may  largest  share  the  other's  bliss. 

Feelings,  till  then  unknown,  with  marriage  rise, 
Duties  with  pleasures  blended  ;  thoughtful  loves 
With  soft  endearment,  Venus'  gentle  doves 

In}roked  with  Juno's  statelier  train  ;  the  ties 

Of  home  and  household  ;  thoughts  that  s}'mpathize 
With  social  impulses  ;  and  joys  that  spring 

From  toils,  that  find  rich  recompense  in  love. 

These  now  are  mine  :  and  time,  on  restless  wing, 

Who  seeks  old  hopes,  old  pleasures  to  remove, 

New  hopes,  new  pleasures,  doth  more  largely  bring. 

The  heart,  love-quickened,  strikes  deep  root,  and  sends 

Upward  its  branches  high  :  wife,  servants^  friends, 
Find  shelter  in  its  shade  ;  love's  tendrils  cling 

Firm  round  the  stem  ;  and  fruit  with  foliage  blends. 


THE  FATHER. 

Deem  not  tlry  mind  developed,  nor  the  tone 
Of  moral  power  perfected,  till  the  sight 
Of  thine  own  offspring  bring  at  once  to  light 

Those  inbred  thoughts  and  feelings,  which  alone 

To  parents,  in  that  blissful  hour,  are  shown  : 

Thoughts  hid  in  nature's  darkness,  till  the  might 
Of  love  parental  in  the  heart  excite 

Hopes,  joys,  and  fears,  to  lonely  breasts  unknown. 
Love  lights  the  torch  of  Hymen  ;  but  the  ray 
Of  infant  beauty,  brightening  into  da}', 

Gives  lasting  radiance  to  that  living  flame, 
Else  weak,  or  wavering  :  selfish  feelings  yield 
To  social  ties  ;  the  Father  stands  revealed, 

Friend,  lover,  guardian  joined  in  that  fond  name. 


42  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

9   CHILDREN. 

Fret  not,  nor  turn  aside,  unwedded  eld  ! 
If  entering,  unexpected,  at  my  door, 
Thou  find'st  the  father  stretched  along  the  floor, 

In  childish  sport  with  children  !  nor,  repelled 

By  churlish  thoughts,  be  sympathy  withheld 

From  these  rude  prattlers,  whose  young  hearts  run  o'er 
"With  warm  affections — felt  by  tliee,  of  yore, 

Though  now  forgot.     In  me,  time  hath  not  quelled, 
But  strengthened  rather,  feelings  that  impart 
The  child's  warm  transport  to  the  parent's  heart. 

A  father's  love  thon  know'st  not ;  }'et  may'st  see, 
In  these  fond  looks  and  gestures,  ties  that  bind, 
In  firm  yet  tender  bonds,  the  heart  and  mind 

Of  sire  and  child,  in  fondest  sympathy. 


FLOWERS. 

How  sweet,  at  morn  or  eve,  amid  the  flowers, 
To  trace  the  garden  walks,  while  bud  and  bloom 
Of  opening  plants  exhale  their  rich  perfume, 

And  shed  their  rainbow  colors  !  Not  the  bowers, 

Where  Eve  in  Eden  passed  untroubled  hours, 
In  youthful  innocence,  ere  guilt  brought  gloom, 

Could  pleasure  give,  more  free  from  earthly  care. 

Nor  want  we  here,  what  Eve  found  never  there. 
The  parent's  transport,  while  our  eyes  run  o'er 

With  tears  of  rapture,  as  each  happy  child 

Springs  gaily  forth,  with  shout  and  gesture  wild, 
Each  path  to  trace,  each  rich  recess  explore. 

"Come,  father!  come;  look,  mother!  look  at  this"- 

C'old  is  his  heart  that  warms  not  at  such  bliss. 

And  say'st  thou,  sage  economist!  that  flowers 
Are  useless,  since  nor  food  nor  clothes  they  yield 
To  cold  or  hungry  want,  mere  cumberers  of  the  field  ! 

And  is  this  all?  and  have  our  boasted  powers 
No  nobler  aim  than  meanly  to  supply 
Our  daily  wants,  to  toil,  gorge,  sleep,  and  die? 

Go,  tread  yon  bark-mill  in  its  circuit,  then, 
Of  thankless  labor,  grovelling  to  the  earth, 
With  him,  of  stronger  growth  and  kindred  birth, 

The  beast  thou  clriv'st  before  thee  !  leave  to  men, 
Nay,  e'en  to  children,  yonder  girl  and  boy, 

Who  revel  mid  these  walks,  delights  to  find 

In  form  and  fragrance,  which  thy  prouder  mind 
Wants  yet  the  gentler  feeling  to  enjoy. 


SARAH  WHITE  LIVERMORE.  43 

Fair  flowers  are  bland  instructors,  that  still  read 

Deep  lessons  to  the  thoughtful ;  and  infuse 
The  love  of  nature  into  hearts  that  heed 

Their  gentle  teachings.     Ask  not  then  their  use, 
If  grace,  and  beauty,  in  their  train  appear, 

And  love  and  admiration.     These  still  lead 
To  purest  jo}'s,  despite  the  cynic  sneer 

Of  cold  ungenial  natures.     While  I  gaze 
In  silent  pleasure,  as  the  flowers  uprear 

Freely  their  beauties  to  the  rising  sun, 

Or,  timid  shrinking,  strive  in  vain  to  shun, 
Like  modest  beauty,  man's  intrusive  praise, 

I  feel  their  gentle  power  pervade  each  part, 

Till  joy  turns  love  to  virtue  in  the  heart. 


PATRIOTISM. 

For  him  who  loves  his  country,  and  would  fain 

Lay  life  and  fortune  at  her  feet,  content 

For  her  to  spend,  and  in  her  cause  be  spent, 
How  hard  to  find  his  patriot  labors  vain, 
His  cares  with  scorn  repaid,  or  cold  disdain  : 

Dungeoned,  perchance,  or,  worse,  an  exile  sent 

The  tears  to  shed  of  bitter  banishment ; 
While  servile  millions  mock  his  generous  pain, 
Howl  o'er  his  fall,  and  hug  their  tyrant's  chain. 

Yet  who  but  envies  Aristides'  doom, 
Thy  bowl,  O  Socrates  !  or  Tully's  end  ? 

And  who  would  change  the  martyred  Sidney's  tomb 

For  Charles's  mirth,  or  James's  bigot  gloom  ? 
So  far  can  virtue  lawless  power  transcend ! 

3arai)  2M1)ite  Etbermore. 

Miss  Livermore  was  the  ninth  child  and  fourth  daughter  of  Bev.  Jonathan  and 
Elizabeth  Kiddcr  Livermore.  Her  father  was  the  first  settled  minister  in  Wilton. 
She  was  born  in  that  town,  July  20,  1789.  She  early  manifested  an  ardent  thirst  for 
knowledge,  and,  with  little  assistance  out-side  the  family,  duly  qualified  herself  to 
he  a  teacher  in  the  common  schools,  and  Avas  among  the  pioneers  who  organized 
Sabbath  schools,  about  the  year  1820.  She  taught  schools  frequently  in  Keene. 
Her  death  occurred  July  3, 1874. 


THE  BURDOCK. 

Spontaneous  product  of  the  yard, 
Thy  virtues  by  the  grateful  bard 

Shall  not  remain  unsung  ; 
The  keenest  smart  thou  canst  assuage, 
Thy  balm  can  cheer  the  latest  age, 

Or  soothe  and  ease  the  young. 


44  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

Tis  true  thou  art  of  homely  mien, 
And  never,  never  hast  thou  been 

Cultured  with  careful  hand  ; 
But  only  under  some  old  hedge, 
Or  in  some  garden's  barren  edge 

They  suffer  thee  to  stand. 

The  hand  that  decks  the  garden  bower. 
And  rears  with  care  each  tender  flower, 

May  scorn  thy  latent  worth  ; 
But  soon  as  pain  invades  the  head, 
Or  heats  and  chills  the  frame  o'erspread, 

Thine  aid  is  then  called  forth. 

Thus  often  in  some  humble  cell 
Secluded  worth  unknown  may  dwell 

Till  woe  demands  its  aid  ; 
It  leaves  awhile  its  native  seat, 
Dispenses  consolation  sweet, 

Then  seeks  its  native  shade. 

Mine  be  the  humble  burdock's  part, 
To  soften  pain,  to  cheer  the  heart, 

And  wipe  the  tears  of  grief; 
And  though  the  prosperous  m.'iy  neglect, 
And  Fortune's  pets  meet  more  respect, 

I  live  to  give  relief. 


^Farmer. 


.John  Farmer  was  a  native  of  Chelmsford,  Mass.,  but  removed  to  Anilicrst  in 
lNi-">  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  Here  he  passed  five  years,  as  a  clerk  in  .a  store.  Here 
too  he  studied  medicine  for  a  time,  and  taught'school  many  years,  until  constitu 
tional  ill  health  made  him  an  antiquarian.  He  became  distinguished  for  his  minute 
and  exact  knowledge  relating  to  the  early  history  of  this  State,  and,  in  general,  of 
New  Kngland.  He  lived  in  Concord,  and 'had  an  apothecary  store.  He  (tied  there 
Aug.  13.  1830.  His  X.  II.  Gazetteer.  N.  11.  Iteuister,  Notes  to  l!elkna]>'s  History, 
Town  Histories,  and  Genealogical  Register  are  monuments  of  his  talent  and  industry. 


LINES. 

In  life,  through  every  varied  stag<% 

In  every  rank  and  station, 
In  youth,  in  manhood,  and  in  age, 

While  all  is  in  mutation  ; 
lie  who  (with  steadiness  of  mind, 

And  passions  ne'er  uneven), 
Is  ever  to  his  lot  resigned, 

On  earth  enjoj's  a  heaven. 


EIJSHA  SNELL  FISH.  45 

EPITAPH  FOR  A  FRIEND. 

Lamented  friend  !  we  mourn  the  doom 

That  sent  thee  early  to  the  tomb  ; 
But  we  rejoice  the  path  was  trod 

That  leads  to  virtue  and  to  God. 

Calm  resignation  lent  her  aid, 

Taught  him  the  chastening  hand  to  bear ; 
Within  Affliction's  gloomy  shade, 
•  He  saw  his  brightest  bliss  was  near. 

Archangels  all !  your  anthems  sing, 

With  golden  palms  he  now  is  crowned  ; 

His  soul  is  borne  on  Glory's  wing, 

Where  health,  where  endless  joys  abouud. 


IBltsfja  gnell 

Elisha  Snell  Fish  was  the  son  of  Rev.  Elisha  Fish  of  Gilsum.  His  mother  was 
Abigail  Snell,  the  sister  of  Rev.  Dr.  Snell  of  North  Brookfield,  Mass.,  and  of  3irs. 
Bryant,  the  mother  of  William  C.  Bryant.  He  was  born  at  Windsor,  Mass.,  Sep 
tember  5,  1789.  At  the  age  of  five  years  he  went  with  his  parents  to  Gilsum,  and 
lived  on  the  farm  where  tliey  settled,  till  his  death  at  nearly  eighty  years  of  age. 
The  early  death  of  his  father  in  1807,  changed  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  and  he 
gave  up  his  long  cherished  hopes  of  a  collegiate  education.  His  life  was  spent  in 
horticulture,  and  he  became  very  successful  in  that  pursuit.  He  was  a  diligent 
reader  of  books,  had  a  fine  literary  taste,  and  a  remarkable  facility  in  composition. 
The  Boston  Recorder  and  the  N.  H.  Sentinel  contain  many  articles  from  his  pen, 
especially  in  poetry.  In  1814  he  wrote  a  poem  entitled  "The  Retrospect,"  extend 
ing  to  some  2500  lines.  His  versification  is  generally  very  accurate,  and  his  style 
is  noticeable  for  its  energy,  and  frequently  for  the  severity  of  its  sarcasm. 


AMBITION. 

Ambition  has  no  soul  but  self, 
No  rights  but  hers  she  knows  ; 

Whoe'er  has  power,  or  fame,  or  pelf, 
She  counts  her  natural  foes. 

She's  dark  and  cruel  as  the  grave, 
Her  robes  are  dyed  in  blood ; 

O'er  smoking  fields  her  banners  wave, 
As  rolls  destruction's  flood. 

Ambition's  limitless  as  space, 

'Twould  scale  the  Eternal's  throne, 

Divine  authority  efface, 
And  substitute  its  own. 

She's  meaner  than  the  dust  she  treads, 
And  more  absurd  than  mean  ; 

She  courts  the  very  death  she  dreads, 
Then  vanishes  unseen. 


4fi  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


She  seeks  among  the  stars  to  write 
A  name  that  ne'er  shall  die 

By  means  that  bring  oblivion's  night, 
And  smiling  grasps  the  lie. 

The  name  of  wicked  men  shall  rot, 
And  perish  all  their  gains  ; 

'Tis  thus  that  He  who  changes  not 
In  righteousness  ordains. 

This  awful  sentence  hangs  on  high, 
Suspended  o'er  our  heads  ; 

While  fools  the  warning  dare  defy, 
The  wise  man  reads  and  dreads. 


STANZAS  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  OPENING  OF  CHINA 
TO  GOSPEL  INFLUENCES. 

Let  Christians  hear  from  Sinim's  coasts 

A  more  than  Macedonian  en*, 
A  summons  from  the  Lord  of  Hosts 

To  teach  those  heathen  ere  the}-  die. 

Exclusion's  wall  that  girt  them  round 

God  has  dissolved,  to  rise  no  more  ; 
Those  fields  immense,  all  mission  ground, 

Invite  the  reapers  to  their  shore. 

Ye  who  are  named  of  Christ  arise, 

The  armor  of  the  Cross  gird  on  ; 
Your  Captain  from  the  opening  skies 

Has  to  the  glorious  conquest  gone. 

Who  hears  the  summons  to  obe}-  ? 

Who  blessed  with  sons  will  cheerful  give  ? 
Who  strong  in  faith  with  fervor  pray, 

"O  bid  those  dying  sinners  live?" 

Who  in  the  vigor  of  his  j'outh, 

His  life  to  God  will  consecrate 
To  bear  his  messages  of  truth 

To  those  who  thus  in  darkness  wait? 

Who  from  his  treasured  wealth  will  bring, 
With  liberal  hand  and  glowing  heart, 

Fit  offerings  to  his  Saviour  King, 
Who  bids  him  to  his  cause  impart? 


ELISHA  SNELL  FISH.  47 


The  light,  the  men,  the  wealth  are  here; 

The  blessings  of  our  land  o'erflow  : 
And  who  with  piety  sincere 

Can  e'er  presume  to  answer,  No? 


INFERENCES  AND  REFLECTIONS 

Occasioned  by  the  following  passages  from  President  Folk's  Message,  1845.  "That 
system  of  self-government  which  seems  natural  to  our  soil."  "Furnishing  another 
example  that  self-government  is  inherent  in  the  Amerian  breast  and  must  prevail." 

Let  groaning  Africans  rejoice, 

Redemption  draweth  nigh ! 
The  southern  seer's  prophetic  voice 

Bids  every  tear  be  dry. 

His  oracle  has  spoken 'well, 

'Tis  thus  that  Heaven  has  willed  ; 
That  voice  is  slavery's  final  knell ; 

Her  destiny's  fulfilled. 

The  "soil"  her  cruel  footsteps  tread, 

Possesses  native  power 
To  bow  Oppression's  lofty  head, 

And  haste  her  final  hour. 

The  air  she  breathes  is  Freedom's  gale, 

And  Independence  bold 
It  flings  on  every  hill  and  vale 

Where  men  are  bought  and  sold. 

The  northern  breeze  o'er  Dixou's  line 

Is  wafting  health  and  light ; 
Averted  eyes  perceive  the  sign, 

And  shun  the  unwelcome  sight. 

"Self-government  inherent"  lies 

Within  the  native  breast, 
That,  bursting  from  its  cell,  shall  rise 

And  claim  its  high  behest. 

The  institutions  of  our  land, 

AVith  one  exception,  bear 
That  deep  impression,  broad  and  grand, 

Which  Pilgrim  structures  wear. 

God's  seal  is  on  them,  and  his  arm 

Is  stretched  for  their  defence  ; 
Their  influence,  with  a  heavenly  charm, 

Shall  drive  the  exception  hence. 


48  POETS  OF  NKW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Well,  prophet,  thou  hast  spoken  right, 

However  short  thy  ken, 
For  Soon  will  Freedom's  growing  light 

Pour  in  on  sable  men. 

And  Freedom's  sword  they  }*et  shall  wield, 
Yet  reason's  strength  employ  ; 

Their  chains  shall  fall,  their  stripes  be  healed, 
Their  sorrows  turned  to  joy. 

No  thanks,  O  seer,  to  thee  are  due 

For  words  so  just  and  right ; 
Thy  utterances,  though  wise  and  true, 

Reached  far  beyond  thy  sight. 

So  once  Caiaphas  prophesied 

Jn  words  not  understood, 
When  God's  own  Son  he  crucified, 

And  stained  his  soul  with  blood. 

O  Slavery,  thou  shalt  die  at  last, 

Though  thou  in  Texas  hide  ; 
Thy  knell  shall  peal  on  every  blast, 

That  sweeps  thy  deserts  wide. 

Thy  friends  by  artifice  and  wile 

May  lengthen  out  thy  day  ; 
Tis  but  reprieve  :  thy  doom  meanwhile 

Grows  heavier  by  delay. 

Keen  ridicule  in  taunting  jests 

At  thy  pretensions  sneers  ; 
The  curse  of  God  upon  thee  rests, 

And  shakes  thy  land  with  fears. 

Dark  ignorance  its  baleful  shade, 

Has  cast  upon  thy  coast ; 
And  vices,  here  unnamed,  degrade 

The  men  that  are  thy  boast. 

Crime,  shame  and  poverty  are  thine, 

A  trinity  of  woe  : 
Dost  doubt? — go  thread  Ohio's  line, 

Thine  eye  will  tell  thee  so. 

The  curse  of  men  that  feel  thy  sting 

Still  deepens  day  by  day ; 
Those  whispers  low  shall  thunders  bring, 

And  sweep  the  scourge  away. 


NATHANIEL  APPLETON  HAVEN.  49 

The  light  of  Heaven  shall  o'er  thee  flow, 

Nor  leave  thee  place  nor  name, 
Known  only  in  those  realms  of  woe 

From  whence  thy  presence  caine. 


Natijantel  &ppleton 


This  distinguished  orator  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  Jan.  14,  1790.  He  graduated 
at  Harvard  College,  and  afterwards  studied  law.  He  delivered  orations  on  various 
occasions,  and  for  several  years  was  editor  of  the  Portsmouth  Journal.  He  died 
in  his  native  town,  June  3,  1856. 


AUTUMN. 

I  love  the  dews  of  night, 

I  love  the  howling  wind  ; 
I  love  to  hear  the  tempests  sweep 
Over  the  billows  of  the  deep  : 
For  nature's  saddest  scenes  delight 

The  melancholy  mind. 

Autumn  !  I  love  thy  bower, 

With  faded  garlands  drest ; 
How  sweet,  alone  to  linger  there 
When  tempests  ride  the  midnight  air, 
To  snatch  from  mirth  a  fleeting  hour, 

The  sabbath  of  the  breast. 

Autumn  !  I  love  thee  well ; 

Though  bleak  thy  breezes  blow  ; 
I  love  to  see  the  vapors  rise, 
And  clouds  roll  wildly  round  the  skies, 
Where  from  the  plain  the  mountains  swell, 

And  foaming  torrents  flow. 

Autumn  !  thy  fading  flowers 

Droop  not  to  bloom  again  ; 
So  man,  though  doomed  to  grief  awhile, 
To  hang  on  Fortune's  fickle  smile, 
Shall  glow  in  heaven  with  nobler  powers 

Nor  sigh  for  peace  in  vain. 


PRAYER. 

Great  God  !  at  midnight's  solemn  hour, 
I  own  thy  goodness  and  thy  power  ; 
But  bending  low  before  thy  throne, 
I  pray  not  for  myself  alone. 


50  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  pray  for  her,  my  dearest  friend, 
For  her  my  fervent  prayers  ascend  ; 
And  while  to  thee  my  vows  I  bring, 
For  her  my  warmest  wishes  spring. 

While  dark  and  silent  rolls  the  night, 
Protect  her  with  thy  heavenly  might ; 
Thy  curtain  round  her  pillow  spread, 
And  circling  angels  guard  her  bed. 

Let  peaceful  slumbers  press  her  eyes, 
Till  morning  b,eams  in  splendor  rise  ; 
And  pure  and  radiant  as  that  beam 
Be  the  light  vision  of  her  dream. 

Let  each  succeeding  morn  impart 
New  pleasures  to  her  tranquil  heart ; 
And  richer  blessings  crown  the  night, 
Than  met  the  view  at  morning  light. 

Whate'er  my  swelling  heart  desires, 
When  fervent  prayer  to  heaven  aspires, 
Whate'er  has  warmed  my  fancy's  glow 
May  she,  with  tenfold  richness,  know. 

O  God  !  may  she  thy  laws  fulfil," 
And  live  and  die  thy  favorite  still ; 
Live  to  enjoy  thy  bounteous  hand, 
And  die  to  join  the  seraph  band. 


HYMN  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1813. 

Father,  again  before  thy  throne, 

Thy  suppliant  children  humbly  pray  ; 

With  grateful  hearts  thy  mercy  own, 
That  crowns  once  more  their  natal  da}r. 

Though  War  our  fertile  valleys  stain, 
Though  Slaughter  bare  his  gory  hand, 

Though  Famine  lead  her  ghastly  train, 
We  glory  in  our  native  land. 

Yes :  'tis  our  own,  our  father's  home, — 

Their  ashes  rest  beneath  the  sod  : 
The  fields  that  now  our  children  roam, 

Their  footsteps  once  as  gladly  trod. 

Our  hardy  sons  who  till  the  earth, 
Undaunted  still  will  danger  face  : 


AMOS  ANDREW  PARKER. 


The  land  that  gave  our  fathers  birth 
Will  never  bear  a  coward  race. 

The  gallant  few  who  plough  the  deep, 
Can  sternly  meet  the  raging  storm  ; 

And  o'er  the  swelling  ocean  sweep, 
Unmoved  at  Danger's  giant  form. 

But  braver  hearts  have  shrunk  from  fight, 
When  kindred  blood  must  dye  the  steel  ; 

The  boldest  to  contend  for  right 
The  ties  of  nature  strongest  feel. 

Father,  once  more  "good-will"  proclaim, 
And  bid  conflicting  passions  cease  ; 

Repress  each  proud,  ambitious  aim, 

And  give  thy  suppliant  children  "  peace. 


Mr.  Parker  was  born  in  Fitzwilliam  in  1792.  In  1813  he  graduated  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  Vermont  in  Burlington.  He  became  a  lawyer  in  Epping ;  went  to  Concord 
in  18-23,  and  was  for  a  few  years  editor  of  the  N.  H.  Statesman;  practised  law  from 
1826  to  1836  in  New  Market,  when  he  returned  to  his  native  town,  where,  besides 
his  professional  business,  he  engaged  in  other  pursuits.  He  has  served  in  the  Legis 
lature  during  thirteen  sessions.  He  has  been  author  of  several  books,  among  which 
are:  "A  Trip  to  the  West  and  Texas,"  of  which  forty  thousand  copies  were  sold; 
"Poems  at  Fourscore";  and  "Recollections  of  General  Lafayette's  Visit,  and  Sketch 
of  His  Life."  And  now,  at  the  age  of  fourscore  years  and  ten,  he  is  enjoying  a  se 
rene  old  age  at  Glastonbury,  Conn.,  having  thus  far  lived  a  strictly  temperate  life. 
His  poems  were  either  written  early  or  late  in  life. 


THE  PAKTLNG  HOUR. 

And  now,  dear  friends,  the  parting  hour 

Most  sadly  grieves  my  heart ; 
Yet  writers,  readers,  lovers,  friends, 

Are  destined  all  to  part. 
Why  this  should  be  our  destin}', 

Puzzles  the  strongest  mind  ; 
Yet  those  that  go  are  happier 

Than  those  the}'  leave  behind. 

No  matter  if  the  journey  be 

Dangerous,  near  or  far, 
To  the  bleak  sea  or  wild  frontier, 

Or  daring  deeds  of  war ; 
Yet  active  scenes  so  much  engage 

The  body  and  the  mind, 
That  those  who  go  are  happier 

Than  those  they  leave  behind. 


52  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  bride  that  leaves  her  parents'  home 

Ma}-  leave  it  bathed  in  tears  ; 
Yet  rainbow  hope  across  her  path 

Dispels  her  doubts  and  fears. 
But  the  dear  friends  that  she  has  left, 

What  comfort  can  they  find 
But  that  the  bride  is  happier 

Than  those  she  leaves  behind  ? 

If  in  the  daily  walks  of  life, 

You  have  a  valued  friend. 
Be  sure  that  your  sweet  intercourse 

In  time  will  have  an  end  ; 
And  when  you  part,  as  part  you  must, 

You  then  will  surely  find 
The  one  that  goes  the  happiest, 

The  saddest  left  behind. 

But  parting  scenes  will  surely  end 

When  time  shall  be  no  more, 
And  we  shall  meet  the  absent  friends 

That  have  gone  on  before  ; 
When  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  blast 

To  summon  all  mankind, 
Immortals  then  will  meet  at  last, 

And  none  be  left  behind. 


JILTED. 

Betrothed  !  you  now  have  locked  the  door, 

Between  yourself  and  me  ; 
And  that  it  should  not  open  more 

Have  thrown  away  the  key. 

And  I  am  left  out  in  the  cold, 

While  you  are  warm  inside  ; 
And  tell  me  I  am  now  too  old 

For  you  to  be  my  bride. 

Belike  you  would  not  were  I  young, 
And  3'ou  were  "sweet  sixteen"  ; 

Although  }'ou  have  a  silver  tongue, 
I  know  not  what  you  mean. 

A  woman  is  a  seated  book, 
And  who  can  break  the  seals? 

The  binding  has  a  pleasant  look, 
But  nothing  that  reveals. 


CARLOS  WILCOX. 


The  wisest  man  that  ever  lived, 

Dealt  largel}7  with  the  fair, 
And  tried  a  thousand  !  then  he  wept, 

And  gave  up  in  despair. 

I've  wooed  and  wooed  for  ten  long  j-ears, 

And  often  thought  I  won  ; 
Alternate  have  been  hopes  and  fears, 

But  now  ni}r  task  is  done. 

I  sometimes  thought  I  had  a  place 

Assigned  me  in  your  heart, 
But  find  at  last  a  smiling  face 

Is  but  the  work  of  art. 

I  bid  you  now  a  last  farewell, 

And  leave  you  with  regret ; 
For  once  you  were,  you  know  right  well, 

To  me  a  chosen  pet. 

And  now  I  seek,  and  hope  I  may 

A  true  companion  find, 
Who  will  not,  on  her  wedding  clay, 

Tell  me  she's  changed  her  mind. 


Carlos  Wilcox  was  born  in  Newport,  October  '23,  1791.  In  his  fourth  year  his 
parents  removed  to  Orwell,  Vermont,  lie  graduated  at  Middlebury  College,  ami 
studied  theology  at  Andover,  Mass.  He  became  a  Congregational  minister  in  1818. 
and  after  preaching  a  few  months,  was  obliged  to  rest  from  his  duties  on  account  of 
ill  health.  In  1824  he  became  pastor  of  the  North  Church  in  Hartford,  Conn.  He 
resigned  this  situation  after  two  years.  He  died  May  -29,  18-27.  He  was  much 
engaged  in  the  composition  of  his  two  poems,  "The  Age  of  Benevolence,"  and 
"The  Religion  of  Taste,"  the  first  in  blank  verse,  and  the  last  in  Spencerian  stanza, 
neither  of  which  did  he  live  to  complete.  The  specimens  here  given  are  extracts 
from  the  long  poems. 


ACTIVE  CHRISTIAN  BENEVOLENCE. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief? 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppressed  with  woes  untold? 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief? 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold  : 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapt  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty  ;  not  when,  all  unrolled, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom,  rich  and  fair, 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  ambient  air. 

Wake,  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers, 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the  night 


54  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  numbered  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight ; 
Wake,  ere  the  earth-born  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  addressed  ; 
Do  something — do  it  soon — with  all  thy  might ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself,  inactive,  were  no  longer  blest. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate,  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  stud}*,  pastime,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined. 
Pray  heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fixed,  and  feelings  purely  kind ; 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  Heaven  permit 
To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air ; 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies,  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare  ; 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 
Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That,  'mid  gajr  thousands,  with  the  suns  and  showers 
Of  half  a  century,  grows  alone  before  it  flowers. 

Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 
To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves, 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  heaven? 
Did  Newton  learn  from  fancy,  as  it  roves, 
To  measure  worlds  and  follow,  where  each  moves? 
Did  Howard  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease, 
By  wanderings  wild  that  nature's  pilgrim  loves? 
Or  did  Paul  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace, 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles  of  Greece? 

Beware  lest  thou,  from  sloth  that  would  appear 
But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 
Thy  want  of  worth  ;  a  charge  thou  couldst  not  hear 
From  other  lips  without  a  blush  of  shame, 
Or  pride  indignant ;  then  be  thine  the  blame, 
And  make  thyself  of  worth ;   and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles  of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame  ; 
'Tis  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  missed, 
Or  let  all  soon  forget  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist. 


CARLOS  WILCOX.  55 


Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know, — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above  ; 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow ; 
The  seed,  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours, 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
Shall  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  3Tield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal  bowers. 


LIVE  FOR  ETERNITY. 

A  bright  or  dark  eternity  in  view, 
With  all  its  fixed,  unutterable  things, 
What  madness  in  the  living  to  pursue, 
As  their  chief  portion  with  the  sp eed  of  wings, 
The  jo}'s  that  death-beds  alwaj's  turn  to  stings  ! 
Infatuated  man  on  earth's  smooth  waste 
To  dance  along  the  path  that  alwaj's  brings 
Quick  to  an  end,  from  which  with  tenfold  haste 
Back  would  he  gladly  fly  till  all  should  be  retraced  ! 

Our  life  is  like  the  hurrying  on  the  eve 
Before  we  start  on  some  long  journey  bound, 
When  fit  preparing  to  the  last  we  leave, 
Then  run  to  every  room  the  dwelling  round, 
And  sigh  that  nothing  needed  can  be  found  ; 
Yet  go  we  must,  and  soon  as  day  shall  break ; 
We  snatch  an  hour's  repose,  when  loud  the  sound 
For  our  departure  calls  ;  we  rise  and  take 
A  quick  and  sad  farewell,  and  go  ere  well  awake. 

Reared  in  the  sunshine,  blasted  by  the  storms, 
Of  changing  time,  scarce  asking  wh\T  or  whence, 
Men  come  and  go  like  vegetable  forms, 
Though  heaven  appoints  for  them  a  work  immense, 
Demanding  constant  thought  and  zeal  intense, 
Awaked  by  hopes  and  fears  that  leave  no  room 
For  rest  to  mortals  in  the  dread  suspense, 
While  yet  they  know  not  if  beyond  the  tomb 
A  long,  long  life  of  bliss  or  woe  shall  be  their  doom. 

What  matter  whether  pain  or  pleasure  fill 
The  swelling  heart  one  little  moment  here  ? 
From  both  alike  how  vain  is  every  thrill, 
While  an  untried  eternity  is  near ; 
Think  not  of  rest,  fond  man,  in  life's  career  ; 


56  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  joys  and  griefs  that  meet  thee,  dash  aside 
Like  bubbles,  and  thy  bark  right  onward  steer 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  till  it  cross  the  tide, 
Shoot  into  port  in  triumph,  or  serenely  glide. 


SUNSET  IN  SEPTEMBER. 

The  snn  now  rests  upon  the  mountain  tops — 
Begins  to  sink  behind — is  half  concealed — 
And  now  is  gone  ;  the  last  faint  twinkling  beam 
Is  cut  in  twain  by  the  sharp  rising  ridge. 
Sweet  to  the  pensive  is  departing  day, 
When  only  one  small  cloud,  so  still  and  thin, 
So  thoroughly  imbued  with  amber  light, 
And  so  transparent,  that  it  seems  a  spot 
Of  brighter  sky,  beyond  the  farthest  mount, 
Hangs  o'er  the  hidden  orb  ;  or  where  a  few 
Long,  narrow  stripes  of  denser,  darker  grain, 
At  each  end  sharpened  to  a  needle's  point, 
With  golden  borders,  sometimes  straight  and  smooth, 
And  sometimes  crinkling  like  the  lightning  stream, 
A  half  hour's  space  above  the  mountain  lie  ; 
Or  when  the  whole  consolidated  mass 
That  only  threatened  rain,  is  broken  up 
Into  a  thousand  parts,  and  }Tet  is  one, 
One  as  the  ocean  broken  into  waves  ; 
And  all  its  spongy  parts,  imbibing  deep 
The  moist  effulgence,  seem  like  fleeces  d}"ed 
Deep  scarlet,  saffron  light,  or  crimson  dark, 
As  they  are  thick  or  thin,  or  near  or  more  remote, 
All  fading  soon  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
Till  twilight  end.     But  now  another  scene, 
To  me  most  beautiful  of  all,  appears  : 
The  sky,  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 
Throughout  the  west,  is  kindled  to  a  glow 
So  bright  and  broad  it  glares  upon  the  eye, 
Not  dazzling,  but  dilating  with  calm  force 
Its  power  of  vision  to  admit  the  whole. 
Below,  'tis  all  of  richest  orange  dye, 
Midway  the  blushing  of  the  mellow  peach 
Paints  not  but  tinges  the  ethereal  deep  ; 
And  here,  in  this  most  lovely  region,  shines, 
With  added  loveliness,  the  evening-star. 
Above,  the  fainter  purple  slowly  fades, 
Till  changed  into  the  azure  of  mid-heaven. 


"  CARLOS  W1LCOX.  57 


Along  the  level  ridge,  o'er  which  the  sun 
Descended,  in  a  single  row  arranged, 
As  if  thus  planted  by  the  hand  of -art, 
Majestic  pines  shoot  up  into  the  sky, 
And  in  its  fluid  gold  seem  half  dissolved. 
Upon  a  nearer  peak,  a  cluster  stands 
With  shafts  erect,  and  tops  converged  to  one, 
A  stately  colonnade  with  verdant  roof; 
Upon  a  nearer  still,  a  single  tree, 
With  shapely  form,  looks  beautiful  alone  ; 
While,  farther  northward,  through  a  narrow  pass 
Scooped  in  the  hither  range,  a  single  mount 
Beyond  the  rest,  of  finer  smoothness  seems, 
And  of  a  softer,  more  ethereal  blue, 
A  pyramid  of  polished  sapphire  built. 

But  now  the  twilight  mingles  into  one 
The  various  mountains  ;  levels  to  a  plain 
This  nearer,  lower  landscape,  dark  with  shade, 
Where  every  object  to  my  sight  presents 
Its  shaded  side ;  while  here  upon  these  walls, 
And  in  that  eastern  wood,  upon  the  trunks 
Under  thick  foliage,  reflective  shows 
Its  3rellow  lustre.     How  distinct  the  line 
Of  the  horizon  parting  heaven  and  earth. 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  spring,  made  drear}r  by  incessant  rain, 
Was  well  nigh  gone,  and  not  a  glimpse  appeared 
Of  vernal  loveliness,  but  light-green  turf 
Round  the  deep  bubbling  fountain  in  the  vale, 
Or  by  the  rivulet  on  the  hill-side,  near 
Its  cultivated  base,  fronting  the  south, 
Where,  in  the  first  warm  rays  of  March,  it  sprung 
Amid  dissolving  snow  : — save  these  mere  specks 
Of  earliest  verdure,  with  a  few  pale  flowers, 
In  other  years  bright  blowing,  soon  as  earth 
Unveils  her  face,  and  a  faint  vermil  tinge 
On  clumps  of  maple  of  the  softer  kind, 
Was  nothing  visible  to  give  to  May, 
Though  far  advanced,  an  aspect  more  like  her's 
Than  like  November's  universal  gloom. 
All  day  beneath  the  sheltering  hovel  stood 
The  drooping  herd,  or  lingered  near  to  ask 
The  food  of  winter.     A  few  lonely  birds, 


f>fi  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Of  those  thai  in  this  northern  clime  remain 
Throughout  the  year,  and  in  the  dawn  of  spring, 
At  pleasant  noon,  frem  their  unknown  retreat, 
( 'ome  suddenly  to  view  with  lively  notes, 
( )r  those  that  soonest  to  this  clime  return 
From  warmer  regions,  in  thick  groves  were  seen, 
But  with  their  feathers  ruffled  and  despoiled 
Of  all  their  glossy  lustre,  sitting  mute, 
Or  only  skipping,  with  a  single  chirp, 
In  quest  of  food.     Whene'er  the  heavy  clouds, 
That  half  way  down  the  mountain  side  oft  hung, 
As  if  o'erloaded  with  their  watery  store, 
Were  parted,  though  with  motion  unobserved, 
Through  their  dark  opening,  white  with  snow  appeared 
Its  lowest,  e'en  its  cultivated,  peaks. 
With  sinking  heart  the  husbandman  surveyed 
The  melancholy  scene,  and  much  his  fears 
On  famine  dwelt ;  when,  suddenly  awaked 
At  the  first  glimpse  of  daylight,  by  the  sound, 
Long  time  unheard,  of  cheerful  martins,  near 
His  window,  round  their  dwelling  chirping  quick, 
With  spirits  by  hope  enlivened,  up  he  sprung, 
To  look  abroad,  and  to  his  joy  beheld, 
A  sky  without  the  remnant  of  a  cloud. 
From  gloom  to  gayety  and  beauty  bright 
So  rapid  now  the  universal  change, 
The  rude  survey  it  with  delight  refined, 
,      And  e'en  the  thoughtless  talk  of  thanks  devout. 

Long  swoln  in  drenching  rain,  seeds,  germs,  and  buds, 

Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams, 

Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  tymph 

Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 

A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed  in  one  short  week, 

Is  naked  nature  in  her  full  attire. 

On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 

Is  all  the  woodland,  filled  with  sunbeams,  poured 

Through  the  bare  tops   on  yellow  leaves  below, 

With  strong  reflection  :  on  the  last,  'tis  dark 

With  full  grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 

In  one  short  week,  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms  ; 

And  now,  when  steeped  in  dew  or  gentle  showers, 

It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze, 

Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 

E'en  from  the  juicy  leaves,  of  sudden  growth, 

And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air, 

Filled  with  a  watery  glimmering,  receives 


CARLOS  W1LCOX.  59 


A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 
Each  daj1  are  heard,  and  almost  every  hour, 
New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  grov*  s. 
And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feathered  train 
At  evening  twilight  come  ; — the  lonely  snipe, 
O'er  marshy  fields,  high  in  the  dusky  air, 
Invisible,  but  with  faint,  tremulous  tones, 
Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head  ; — 
And,  in  mid-air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 
Flying  awhile  at  random,  uttering  oft 
A  cheerful  cry,  attended  with  a  shake 
Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but,  when  upturned. 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky, 
One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each, 
Then  far  down  diving,  with  loud  hollow  sound  ; — 
And  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood,     - 
The  whip-poor-will,  her  name  her  only  song. 
She,  soon  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 
Of  whooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones, 
To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn, 
Are  by  her  voice  diverted,  and  held  mute, 
Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove  ; 
And  when  the  twilight,  deepened  into  night, 
Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  comes, 
And  on  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 
Of  unfrequented  door,  lighting  unseen, 
Breaks  into  strains  articulate  and  clear, 
The  closing  sometimes  quickened  as  in  sport. 
Now  animate  throughout,  from  morn  to  eve 
All  harmony,  activity,  and  joy, 
Is  lovely  Nature,  as  in  her  blest  prime. 
The  robin  to  the  garden,  or  green  yard, 
Close  to  the  door  repairs  to  build  again 
Within  her  wonted  tree  ;  and  at  her  work 
Seems  doubty  busy,  for  her  past  delay. 
Along  the  surface  of  the  winding  stream, 
Pursuing  every  turn,  gay  swallows  skim  ; 
Or  round  the  borders  of  the  spacious  lawn 
Fly  in  repeated  circles,  rising  o'er 
Hillock  and  fence,  with  motion  serpentine, 
Easy  and  light.     One  snatches  from  the  ground 
A  downy  feather,  and  then  upward  springs, 
Followed  by  others,  but  oft  drops  it  soon, 
In  playful  mood,  or  from  too  slight  a  hold, 
\Vhen  all  at  once  dart  at  the  falling  prize. 
The  flippant  blackbird,  with  light  yellow  crown, 


60  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Hangs  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  chatters  thick 
Till  her  breath  fail,  when,  breaking  off,  she  drops 
On  the  next  tree,  and  on  its  highest  limb, 
Or  some  tall  flag,  and,  gently  rocking,  sits, 
Her  strain  repeating. 


Sara!)  J. 

Mrs.  Hale  was  bom  in  Newport  in  1795.  Her  education  was  principally  directed 
by  her  mother  and  a  brother  in  college,  and  by  her  husband,  l);ivid  Hale,  an  emi- 
nent  lawyer.  On  his  death,  in  1822,  she  was  left  dependent  upon  her  own  exertions 
for  her  support  and  that  of  her  five  children,  the  oldest  of  whom  was  but  seven 
years  of  age,  and  as  a  resource  she  turned  to  literature.  A  volume,  "The  Genius 
of  Oblivion,  and  other  Original  Poems,"  was  published  in  1823,  and  in  1827  a  novel, 
"Northwood,"  in  two  volumes.  She  removed  to  Boston  in  1828  to  conduct  the 
American  Ladies'  Magazine.  In  1838  she  became  editor  of  the  Latly's  Hook,  pub 
lished  in  Philadelphia,  which  position  she  occupied  during  the  remainder  of  her 
life.  She  became  the  author  of  a  large  number  of  books.  Her  poems  are  for  the 
most  part  narrative  and  reflective,  and  are  written  with  force  and  elegance.  She 
died  in  Philadelphia,  April  30,  1879. 


THE  ROSE-TREE  AT  THE  BIRTH-PLACE  OF  WASH 
INGTON. 

Bright  rose  !  what  dost  thou  here,  amid 

These  sad  mementoes  of  the  past? 
The  crumbling  stones  thy  roots  have  hid, ' 

The  bramble's  shade  is  o'er  thee  cast, 
Yet  still  thy  glowing  beauty  seems 
Fair  as  young  childhood's  happy  dreams. 

The  sunbeam  on  the  heaving  surf 

Proclaims  the  tempest's  rage  is  o'er  ; 
The  violet  on  the  frozen  turf, 

Breathes  of  the  smiling  spring  once  more  ; 
But  rose,  thy  mission  to  the  heart, 
In  things  that  alter,  hath  no  part. 

The  inossgrown  ruins  round  are  spread, 
Scarce  rescued  from  earth's  trodden  mass, 

And  time-scathed  trees,  whose  branches  dead 
Lie  cumbering  o'er  the  matted  grass  : 

These  tell  the  tale  of  life's  brief  da}-, 

Hope,  toil,  enjoyment,  death,  decay ! 

The  common  record  this  of  man, 

We  read,  regret,  and  pass  it  by, 
And  rear  the  towers  that  deck  our  span, 

Above  the  grave  where  nations  lie  ; 
And  heroes,  who  like  meteors  shone, 
Are  like  the  meteor's  flashings,  gone. 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  61 


But,  radiant  rose,  thy  beauty  breaks 
Like  eve's  first  star  upon  the  sight ; 

A  holier  hue  the  vision  takes, 

The  ruins  shine  with  heaven's  clear  light ; 

His  name,  who  placed  thy  root  in  earth, 

Doth  consecrate  thy  place  of  birth. 

Yet  'tis  not  here  his  wreath  we  twine, 

Nor  here  that  Freedom's  chief  we  praise  ; 

The  stars  at  rising  softer  shine, 

Than  when  o'er  night's  dark  vault  they  blaze  ; 

Not  here,  with  Washington's  great  name 

Blend  his  achievements  or  his  fame. 

But  brighter,  holier  is  the  ray 

Which  rests  on  this  devoted  ground  ; 

Here  passed  his  childhood's  happy  day, 
Here  glory's  bud  meet  culture  found  : 

Maternal  smiles,  and  tears,  and  prayer, 

These  were  its  light,  its  dew,  its  air. 

Bright  rose  !  for  this  thy  flower  hath  sprung, 
The  mother's  steadfast  love  to  show  ; 

Thy  odor  on  the  gale  is  flung, 

As  pours  that  love  its  lavish  flow  ; 

The  mother's  lot  with  hope  to  cheer, 

T}-pe  of  her  heart,  thou  bloomest  here. 


I  SING  TO  HIM. 

I  sing  to  him — I  dream  he  hears 

The  song  he  used  to  love, 
And  oft  that  blessed  fancy  cheers 

And  bears  my  thoughts  above. 
Ye  say,  'tis  idle  thus  to  dream — 

But  why  believe  it  so? 
It  is  the  spirit's  meteor  gleam 

To  soothe  the  pang  of  woe. 

Love  gives  to  Nature's  voice  a  tone 

That  true  hearts  understand  ; 
The  sky,  the  earth,  the  forest  lone, 

Are  peopled  by  his  wand. 
Sweet  fancies  all  our  fancies  thrill, 

While  gazing  on  a  flower, 
And  from  the  gently  whispering  rill 

Are  heard  the  words  of  power. 


62  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

• 

I  breathe  the  dear  and  cherished  name, 

And  long-lost  scenes  arise  ; 
Life's  glowing  landscape  spreads  the  same, 

The  same  hope's  kindling  skies  ; 
The  violet  bank,  the  moss-fringed  seat 

Beneath  the  drooping  tree, 
The  clock  that  chimed  the  hour  to  meet, 

My  buried  love,  with  thee  ; — 

O,  these  are  all  before  me,  when 

In  fancy's  realms  I  rove  : 
Why  urge  me  to  the  world  again  ? 

Why  say,  the  ties  of  love, 
That  death's  cold,  cruel  grasp  has  riven, 

Unite  no  more  below? 
I'll  sing  to  him — for,  though  in  heaven, 

He  surely  heeds  my  woe  ! 


THE  LIGHT  OF  HOME. 

My  boy,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam  ; 
And  thou  must  go  ;  but  never,  when  there, 

Forget  the  light  of  home. 

Though  pleasure  ma}'  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray  ; 
Like  the  meteor's  flash  'twill  deepen  the  night, 

When  thou  treadest  the  lonely  way. 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

And  pure  as  vestal  fire  ; 
'Twill  burn,  'twill  burn,  forever  the  same, 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest-tost, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam  ; 

But  when  sails  are  shivered  and  rudder  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home  ; 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  the  midnight  cloud, 

Thou  shalt  see  the  beacon  bright ; 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud, 

Can  be  quenched  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  fame,  'twill  gild  the  name  ; 
But  the  heart  ne'er  felt  its  ray  ; 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  63 


And  fashion's  smiles,  that  rich  ones  claim 
Are  but  beams  of  a  wintry  day. 

And  how  cold  and  dim  those  beams  must  be, 
Should  life's  wretched  wanderer  come  ! 

But,  my  boy,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee, 
Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 


THE  SILK-WORM. 

There  is  no  form  upon  our  earth, 
That  bears  the  mighty  Maker's  seal, 

But  has  some  charm  :  to  draw  it  forth, 
We  need  but  hearts  to  feel. 

I  saw  a  fair  young  girl — her  face 

Was  sweet  as  dream  of  cherished  friend — 
Just  at  the  age  when  childhood's  grace 

And  maiden  softness  blend. 

A  silk-worm  in  her  hand  she  laid  ; 

Nor  fear,  nor  yet  disgust  was  stirred  ; 
But  gayly  with  her  charge  she  played, 

As  'twere  a  nestling  bird. 

She  raised  it  to  her  dimpled  cheek, 

And  let  it  rest  and  revel  there  : 
O,  why  for  outward  beauty  seek  ! 

Love  makes  its  favorites  fair. 

That  worm — I  should  have  shrunk,  in  truth, 
To  feel  the  reptile  o'er  me  move, — 

But  loved  by  innocence  and  youth, 
I  deemed  it  worthy  love. 

Would  we,  I  thought,  the  soul  imbue, 

In  early  life,  with  sympathies 
For  every  harmless  thing,  and  view 

Such  creatures  formed  to  please, — 

And,  when  with  usefulness  combined, 
Give  them  our  love  and  gentle  care, — 

O,  we  would  have  a  world  as  kind 
As  God  has  made  it  fair. 

There  is  no  form  upon  our  earth, 
That  bears  the  mighty  Maker's  seal, 

But  has  some  charm  :  to  call  this  forth 
We  need  but  hearts  to  feel. 


64  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Uingijam 


William  IJ.  Tappan  was  born  in  Beverly,  Mass.,  October  20,  1705.  His  parents  re 
moved  to  Portsmouth  when  lie  was  young,  where  he  was  educated.  In  early  life 
he  learned  a  trade,  lie  was  for  a  series  of  years  Agent  of  the  American  Sunday 
School  Union  at  different  depositories.  Several  years  before  his  death  he  began  to 
preach,  but  was  never  ordained,  and  never  had  charge  of  a  parish.  His  poems  are 
dear  to  every  lover  of  aacred  verse. 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

I  gazed  upon  the  mountain  top, 

That  pierced  in  twain  the  passing  cloud, 
And  wondered  at  its  giant  form, 

So  dark,  magnificent,  and  proud. 

Can  this  strong  mountain  from  its  base 
Be  shaken  l>y  the  tempest's  shock  ? 

Can  all  the  gathered  thunders  stir 
This  everlasting  solid  rock 

And  scatter  forth  its  dust  like  hail  ? 

And  fling  its  fragments  on  the  air? 
Can  aught  created  wield  such  strength  ? 

Exists  such  power?  O,  tell  me  where. 

They  ma}-  remove  ;  these  mountains  may 
Tremble,  and  hence  forever  pass  ; 

These  hills  that  pillar  upon  the  skies, 
Perish,  as  doth  the  new-mown  grass. 

Yea,  saith  the  Lord,  they  shall  depart, 
The  hills,  and  all  the  solid  land, 

But  my  rare  word  of  truth  remains, 
My  promise  shall  forever  stand. 


THERE  IS  AN  HOUR  OF  PEACEFUL  REST. 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 

To  mourning  wanderers  given  ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed ; 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast, — 

'Tis  found  alone  in  Heaven. 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even  ; 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 

And  find  repose — in  Heaven. 


WILLIAM  BINGE  AM  TAPPAN  65 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven, 
AVhen  tossed  on  Life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise,  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear, — 'tis  Heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given, 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 

And  all  serene  in  Heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers  immortal  bloom, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given  ; 
There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom  : 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 

Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 


THE  OLD  NORTH  BURIAL   GROUND  IN  PORTS 
MOUTH,  N.  H. 

I  stand  where  I  have  stood  before  in  boyhood's  sunny  prime, — 
The  same,  yet  not  the  same,  but  one  who  wears  the  touch  of 

Time, — 

And  gaze  around  on  what  was  then  familiar  to  the  eye, 
But  whose  inconstant  features  tell  that  years  have  journeyed  by, 

Since  o'er  this  venerable  ground,  a  truant  child  I  played, 

And  chased  the  bee  and  plucked  the  flower  where  ancient  dust 
is  laid ; 

And  hearkened,  in  my  wondering  mood,  when  tolled  the  pass 
ing  bell ; 

And  started  at  the  coffin's  cry  as  clods  upon  it  fell. 

These  mossy  tombs  I  recollect,  the  same  o'er  which  I  pored  ; 
The  same  these  rhymes  and  texts  with  which  my   mind  was 

stored ; 
These  humble  tokens  too,  that  lean,  and    tell  where  resting 

bones 
Are  hidden  though  their  date  and  name  have  perished  from  the 

stones. 

How  rich  these  precincts  with  the  spoils  of  ages  buried  here  ! 
What  hearts  have  ached,  what  eyes  have  given  this  conscious 

earth  the  tear ! 
How  many  friends,  whose  welcome  cheered  their  now-deserted 

doors, 
Have,  since  my  last  sojourning,  swelled  these  melancholy  stores  ! 


66  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Yon  spot,  where  in  the  sunset  ray  a  single  white  stone  gleams, 

I've  visited,  I  can  not  tell  how  often,  in  iny  dreams, — 

That  spot  o'er  which  I  wept,  though  then  too  young  my  loss  to 

know, 
As  I  beheld  my  father's  form  sepulchred  far  below. 

How  freshly  every  circumstance,  though  seas  swept  wide  be 
tween, 

And  years  have  vanished  since  that  hour,  in  vagaries  I've 
seen ! — 

The  lifted  lid,  that  countenance,  the  funeral  arra}r, — 

As  vividly  as  if  the  scene  were  but  of  yesterday. 

How  pleasant  seem  the  moments   now,   as  up  their  shadows 

come, 

Spent  in  the  domicile  that  wore  the  sacred  name  of  home  ! — 
How  in  the  vista  years  have  made,  they  shine  with  mellowed 

light, 
To  which  meridian  bliss  has  nought  so  beautiful  and  bright ! 

How  happy  were  those   fireside  hours,  how    happy  summer's 

walk, 

When  listening  to  my  father's  words,  or  joining  in  the  talk  ! 
How  passed  like  dreams  those  early  hours,  till  down  upon  us 

burst 
The  avalanche  of  grief,  and  laid  our  pleasures  in  the  dust ! 

They  tell  of  loss  ;  but  who  can  tell  how  thorough  is  the  stroke 

By  which  the  tie  of  sire  and  sou  in  death's  forever  broke  ? 

They  tell  of  time ! — though  he  may  heal  the  heart  that's  wound 
ed  sore, 

The  household  bliss  thus  blighted,  Time !  canst  thou  again  re 
store? 

Yet  if  this  spot  recalls  the  dead,  and  brings  from  Memory's  leaf 
A  sentence  wrote  in  bitterness,  of  raptures  bright  and  brief, 
I  would  not  shun  it,  nor  would  lose  the  moral  it  will  give 
To  teach  me  by  the  withered  Past,  for  better  hopes  to  live. 

And  though  to  warn  of  future  woe,  or  whisper  future  bliss, 
One  comes  not  from  the  spirit- world,  a  witness  unto  this ; 
Yet,  from  memorials  of  his  dust,  'tis  wholesome  thus  to  learn, 
And  print  upon  our  thought  the  state  to  which  we  must  return. 

Wherever  then  my  pilgrimage  in  coming  days  shall  be, 

My  frequent  visions,  favorite  ground  !  shall  backward  glance  to 

thee : 

The  holy  dead,  the  by -gone  hours,  the  precepts  early  given, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe  and  influence  my  homeward  way  to  heaven. 


GEORGE  KENT.  67 


George 

George  Kent,  a  son  of  Hon.  William  A.  Kent,  was  born  at  Concord,  May  4, 
1796,  and  was  educated  at  Phillips' Exeter  Academy  and  at  Dartmouth  College,' 
graduating  in  1814.  He  studied  law,  the  last  of  three  years  in  Boston,  and  was 
there  admitted  to  practice  in  1817.  Returning  immediately  to  his  native  town  he 
continued  there  in  practice — a  part  of  the  time  alone  and  a  portion  of  the  time  with 
a  partner — till  1840;  combining  with  his  profession,  a  greater  part  of  the  time,  the 
cjishiership  of  the  Concord  Bank.  He  was  twice  elected  (in  1828  and  1838)  a  mem 
ber  of  the  N.  H.  Legislature,  and  was  a  Trustee  of  Dartmouth  College  from  1837  to 
1840.  For  five  or  six  years,  from  1825  to  1831,  he  was  editor  and  part  proprietor  of  a 
weekly  newspaper,  the  N.  H.  Statesman  and  Concord  Register.  Going  West  in  1843, 
he  was,  for  a  portion  of  the  two  years  succeeding,  in  editorial  charge  of  the  Indiana, 
State  Journal.  Returning  East  the  year  after,  he  was  engaged,  during  its  brief  exis 
tence  of  about  a  year,  as  editor  of  "the  Boston  Daily  Sun.  After  a  few  years'  resi 
dence  in  and  about  Boston— a  part  of  the  time  In  the  practice  of  law,  and  for  two  or 
three  years  doing  duty  as  Inspector  in  the  Boston  Custom  House — he  removed,  iu 
1854,  to  Bangor,  Maine,  and  entered  into  law  partnership  with  his  brother,  the  late 


„  to  Washington  Citv 
In  1869,  he  was,  not  long  after,  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  U .  S.  Treasury  Depart 
ment,  which  he  still  holds. 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  BASE  OF  NIAGARA  FALLS. 

'  'The  voice  of  many  waters  !"  not  the  sound 

"Still,  small"  and  waveless,  like  the  "voice"  that  awed, 

In  solemn  silence,  the  prophetic  ear, 

Betokening  the  unseen  yet  present  God. 

Not  in  the  earthquake  was  the  voice  sublime, 
Though  the  earth  shook  and  trembled  to  its  seat ; 
Nor  in  the  whirlwind,  nor  the  fire,  was  felt 
The  hand  divine,  outstretch'd  o'er  the  expanse. 
No  thunder  gave  the  sound — save  that  which  pours 
Its  ceaseless  rumbling  from  earth's  watery  bed  ; 
But  there  was  power — deep,  awful,  present  power, 
Pervading  mightiest  hearts — such  as  to  quail 
Man's  proudest  spirit  before  Nature's  God. 
But  for  the  "bow  of  promise,"  midway  stretched  — 
Token  of  peace  between  the  earth  and  Heaven — 
The  waste  of  waters  might  have  seem'd  a  flood, 
Again  to  drown  a  rebel  world  in  woe. 

Upward  I  gaze — and  through  the  flaky  mist, 

Stretching  its  drapery  o'er  the  giant  brow, 

That  heaves,  at  point  sublime,  its  awful  front, 

1  note  the  mighty  elemental  force 

Which  needs  but  word  divine  to  whelm  a  world  ; 

And,  lost  in  wonder,  lose  myself  in  Him, 

Whose  power  no  less  can  stay  the  mighty  mass, 

And  "hold  it  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand," 

And  say,  and  be  obey'd,  "Proud  waves  be,  still!" 


f,8  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Freedom  is  imaged  here  in  Nature's  glass, 

"Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye"  ; 

These  cliffs  bespeak  its  mountain  home — these  waves 

Murmur  of  largest  liberty  to  man. 

Eternity  is  boded  to  my  view, 
By  this  outpouring  from  the  groaning  earth — 
This  ceaseless  war  of  elements,  and  rush 
Of  nature's  fountains  from  "deep  unto  deep." 
The  arch  above,*  from  my  last  parting  glance, 
Seem'd  to  the  wondering  gaze  of  raptur'd  sight, 
Like  the  periphery  of  Nature's  wheel, 
Revolving  in  mid-heaven's  enlarged  expanse  ; 
Still  to  roll  on  when  the  last  man  shall  take 
His  farewell  of  a  world  enwrapt  in  flame. 


"HOPE  ON— HOPE  EVER." 

Gone  from  my  heart  is  the  bright  arra}r 
Of  hopes  that  gladden'd  my  summer  day  ; 
The  leaves  are  sere  on  "the  almond  tree," 
And  "a  burden  the  grasshopper  is"  to  me. 

It  is  not  my  heart  is  less  warm  and  kind, 
Than  when  childhood's  ties  were  intertwin'd  ; 
Than  when  bending  low  at  my  mother's  knee, 
I  worship  the  spirit  of  purity. 

It  is  not  that  beauty  has  lost  its  charm, 
Or  that  years  could  the  power  of  love  disarm  ; 
"A  thing  of  beauty"  no  fate  could  sever — 
Once  fix'd,  it  remains  "a  joy  forever." 

'Tis,  perchance,  that  my  locks  have  long  grown  gray — 
That  the  bloom  from  my  cheek  has  pass'd  away — 
That  sickness  has  dimm'd  the  hue  of  health, 
Or  fortune  wooed  vainly  the  phantom  wealth. 

Yet  so  it  ma}7  be — but  I  will  not  repine 
At  what  is  not  fate,  but  a  wise  design 
Of  Providence,  kind  in  its  chastening  rod, 
To  win  from  the  world  what  is  due  unto  God. 

With  the  failing  of  ties  that  bind  to  earth 
Comes  the  advent  of  hopes  of  heavenly  birth  : 
And  a  brighter  spring's  perennial  bloom 
Uplifts  the  pall  of  the  autumn  tomb. 

*Not,  of  course,  the  rainbow— but  that  peculiar  curvature  of  the  desonding  wa 
ter,  so  apparent,  or  so  easily  imagined,  in  the  American  Fall,  as  viewed  obliquely 
from  a  point  near  the  foot  of  the  ferry  stainvay. 


GEORGE  KENT.  6!) 


A  MODEST  CLAIM. 

1  All  tve  ask  is  to  be  let  alone." — JEFF.  DAVIS. 

A  trifling  boon  !  for  traitor  hosts 
To  claim  at  loyal  patriots'  hands  ; 

A  meek  demand,  'mid  Southern  boasts, 
To  come  with  grace  from  rebel  bands  ? 

"Let  us  alone  !"  was  Arnold's  cry, 
When  foiled  in  treason's  lighter  deed  ; 

"Let  me  in  peace  to  England  fly, 
Without  coercion  in  my  speed." 

"Let  us  alone  !"  was  echoed  wide, 
In  Shay's  rebellion,  and  in  times 

Of  whiskj-  riots,  that  defied 

The  arm  of  law  to  reach  their  crimes. 

"Let  us  alone  !"  was  Burr's  demand, 

In  dark  conspiracy  of  yore  ; 
"Why  interfere  for  foreign  land, 

And  guard  so  strict  an  alien  shore?" 

"Let  us  alone  !"  was  Kidd's  own  prayer, 
When  coasting  wide,  with  pirate  crew, 

And  dealing  death — a  slight  affair — 
To  every  prize  that  came  in  view. 

"Let  us  alone  !  why  art  thou  come 
Us  to  torment  before  the  time  !" 

The  evil  spirits,  elsewhere  dumb, 

Could  ask  of  Christ,  despite  their  crime- 

"Let  us  alone  !"  was  sounded  far 
Through  Heaven's  vast  concave,  in  alarm, 

By  rebel  angels,  when  at  war 

Against  the  power  of  God's  right  arm. 

"Let  us  alone  !"  the  South  now  claim, 
When  every  flap  of  Freedom's  flag 

Points  to  that  "deed  without  a  name," 
That  dared  in  dust  our  banner  drag. 

"Let  us  alone  !"  no,  NEVER,  NO  ! 

While  Freedom  stalks  o'er  land  and  sea  ; 
And  arms  proclaim  a  rebel  foe, 

Steeped  in  such  hellish  treachery  ! 


70  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

ODE; 

For  the  Semi  Centennial  Celebration  of  the  New  Hampshire  Historical  Society, 
>(:i y  -2.',  1^73,  the  writer  being  then  the  only  surviving  member  of  the  original  or 
ganization. 

History's  Muse  anew  is  waking — 
Time's  half-century  is  breaking 

O'er  our  old  historic  band  ; 
Through  the  granite  of  our  seeming — 
Far  beyond  the  poet's  dreaming — 
Light  and'love  are  ever  beaming, 

Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand. 

Fitting  seems  this  festive  season, 
"Flow  of  soul  and  feast  of  reason," 

For  a  cordial,  warm  embrace  ; 
No  sectarian  disunion, 
But  enlarged  and  free  communion, 
Concord  full,  and  perfect  union, 

Well  becoming  time  and  place. 

Though  our  homes,  of  cliff  and  mountain, 
Boast  of  no  Arcadian  fountain, 

Nor  Italia's  sunny  skies, 
Our  past  history  assures  us, — 
While  our  hardy  clime  inures  us, — 
Man,  the  growth  our  soil  secures  us, 

Is  New  Hampshire's  richest  prize. 

With  our  progress,  great  and  glorious, 
Saddened  memories  come  o'er  us, 

Calling  up  a  hallowed  band  ; 
Of  the  founders  of  our  order, 
All  but  one  have  crossed  life's  border, 
Meeting  hence  their  just  Rewarder, 

In  a  brighter,  better  land. 

As  frail  tendrils,  intertwining, 
Force  derive  from  their  combining — 

Giving  while  receiving  strength, — 
So  may  heart  meet  heart  in  feeling, 
Tenderest  S}rmpathies  revealing, 
Till  the  work  of  love's  annealing 

Perfect  be  in  heaven  at  length. 

Then,  in  accents  sweeter,  stronger — 
Then  in  praises  louder,  longer — 

Each  full  heart  shall  vocal  be  ; 
Deepest  diapasons  sounding, 


GEORGE  KENT.  71 


Highest  notes  of  joy  abounding, 
Through  Heaven's  arches  wide  resounding — 
Chorus  of  Eternity ! 


IN  MEMORY  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 

The  Nation  mourns  !  no  common  grief    . 
Pervades  our  hearts  ;  Columbia's  Chief 

Has  pass'd  away  from  earth  ; 
With  him  have  died,  while  yet  in  bloom, 
Hopes  that  mature  but  for  the  tomb, 

And  joys  that  scarce  had  birth. 

Our  Country  mourns  :  her  pride  and  choice, 
The  organ  of  the  Nation's  voice, 

Is  hush'd,  for  a}'e  in  death  ; 
Kindred  bewail — earth's  ties  are  rent — 
Friends  part — and  through  the  land  is  sent 

A  wail  in  every  breath. 

The  Nation  mourns  ;  but  not  as  those 
Who  read  the  end  of  human  woes 

In  anguish  yet  to  come : 
We  sorrow  not  as  those  whose  hope 
Is  bounded  by  earth's  narrow  scope, 

Or  buried  in  the  tomb. 

"God  and  my  Country  !"  was  his  theme — 
No  fiction  of  the  poet's  dream — 

But  from  his  inmost  heart ; 
To  One  in  humble  prayer  he  bow'd, 
For  one,  in  weal  or  woe,  he  vow'd 

To  act  the  patriot's  part. 

How  well  that  vow  his  truth  redeem'd  ! 
How  high  will  ever  be  esteem'd 

That  name  to  freemen  dear  ! 
But  nobler  far  that  "New  Name"  given, 
Pledge  of  the  heritage  of  Heaven, 

Beyond  this  earthly  sphere. 

Not  "Conqueror"  o'er  his  Country's  foes, 
But  "over  sin  and  death  he  rose" — 

Be  this  his  rapturous  joy  ; 
Hero  no  more  of  earthly  song, 
His  be  it  now  to  join  the  throng 

In  Heaven's  all-blest  employ. 


72  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


This  writer  was  a  poet  of  Portsmouth.    She  was  born  September  14,  1796,  and 
her  death  occured  February  3,  1863. 


ON  VISITING  THE   SCENES  OF  EARLY  LIFE. 

To  scenes,  to  friends  in  childhood  dear, 
In  after-life  we  fondly  stray  : 
But,  oh,  how  sad  these  scenes  appear, 
When  those  loved  friends  have  passed  away  ! 

With  pensive  pleasure  we  renew 
Acquaintance  with  the  dreamy  past ; 
And,  as  the  picture  starts  to  view, 
We  wish  it  would  for  ever  last. 

We  wander  o'er  the  well  known  sward 
Where  we  in  childhood  loved  to  plaj- ; 
Where  mother's  kiss,  that  best  reward, 
Could  lure  us  from  our  sports  away  ; 

With  chastened  hearts  bend  o'er  the  spot 
Where  friends  beloved  now  sleep  in  death. 
(No  :  there  the  spirit  slumbereth  not : 
'Tis  but  their  dust  that  rests  beneath.) 

We  seek  a  flower, — a  sprig  of  green, 
Which  we,  when  far  away,  ma}'  view  ; 
A  something  to  be  touched  and  seen, 
That  may  our  early  days  renew. 

This  blade  of  grass,  these  fading  leaves, 
Are  all  the  barren  sod  would  yield  : 
But  to  my  heart  more  dear  they  are 
Than  gorgeous  lilies  of  the  field. 


lEUja  13.  ftijornton. 


Mrs.  Thornton,  whose  place  of  nativity  was  in  this  State,  was  author  of  many 
poems.  The  two  here  printed  are  copied  from  the  New  Hampshire  Book  of  Prosu 
and  Poetry  compiled  by  Charles  J.  Fox  and  Samuel  Osgood,  and  published  in  1842. 


THE  SUMAC  TREE. 

I  love  the  rose  when  I  am  glad,  it  seems  so  joyous  too  ; 
With  what  a  glow  it  meets  the  sun,  with  what  a  scent  the  dew  ! 
It  blushes  on  the  brow  of  youth,  as  mingling  in  its  mirth, 
And  decks  the  bride  as  though  it  bloomed  for  her  alone  on  earth. 


ELIZA  S.  THORNTON.  73 

I  love  the  columbine  that  grows  upon  the  hill-top,  wild  ; 
It  makes  me  dream  I'm  young  again,  a  free,  a  blessed  child  ; 
But  3'outhful  da}rs  and  bridal  ones  just  like  the  roses  flee, 
And  sober  fancy  turns  from  these  toward  the  sumac  tree. 

The  sumac?  why? — its  leaves  are  fair  and  beautifully  green, 
And  fringe  the  brilliant  stem  that  runs  a  carmine  thread  be 
tween. 

Its  clustering  fruit,  a  velvet  cone  of  ro}Tal  purple  hue, 
Peers  upward  midst  the  foliage  fair,  in  richest  splendor  too. 

And  then  the  wayward  fancy  turns  in  pensive  hour  to  thee, 
And  twined  with  melancholy  thoughts  art  thou,  proud  sumac  tree, 
A  deep-wrought  spell  of  earty  days  ; — in  lone  and  solemn  state, 
Rank  grew  a  princely  sumac  tree,  beside  the  grave-yard  gate. 

Kindred  and  friends  reposed  below,  and  oft  hath  childish  prayer 
Risen  from  my  heart  that  I,  in  death,  might  slumber  with  them 

there ; 

That  pra}-er,  how  vain  !   yet  still  I  love  in  fancy  oft  to  be 
Lingering  within  that  place  of  graves  beneath  the  sumac  tree. 


BOCHIM. 

'And  they  called  the  name  of  that  place  Bochim ;  (weeping;)  and  they  sacrificed 
there  unto  the  Lord." — .Judges  n.  5. 

Not  in  our  sunn}'  paths  altars  we  raise, 
Not  where  the  roses  bloom  offer  we  praise  ; 
Where  the  dark  cypress  boughs  shadow  our  way, 
Where  the  dark  willow  swings — there  do  we  pray. 

Not  when  the  morning  light  opens  the  flowers, 
Not  when  in  glory  roll  day's  perfect  hours ; 
When  the  last  resy  light  fadeth  away, 
When  the  dew  shuts  the  flower — then  do  we  pray. 

Not  when  the  circle  is  whole  at  the  hearth, 
And  bright  faces  gladden  the  home  of  their  birth  ; 
When  the  turf  covers  or  seas  bear  away 
Those  we  have  watched  over — then  do  we  pray. 

Not  when  the  heart  we  love  turns  to  us,  true, 
When  the  bright  morning  brings  love,  again  new ; 
When  the  heart  trusted  in  turueth  away, 
When  the  eye  answers  not — then  do  we  pray. 

Not  when  the  light  of  bliss  shines  on  the  brow, 
Not  when  hope  whispers,  sweet,  "ever  as  now ;" 
When  the  heart  sinketh  and  hope  dies  away, 
When  the  eye  weepeth  sore — then  do  we  pray. 


74  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Beautiful,  then,  be  our  valley  of  tears, 
With  altars  the  heart  in  its  wretchedness  rears ; 
Nor  grieve  we,  nor  pine,  that  in  grief  we  must  share, 
Since  our  valley  of  tears  is  a  temple  of  pra3Ter. 


Anna  Mnria  Foster  was  born  in  Gloucester,  Mass,  in  1797  and  in  early  life  resided 
in  Windsor,  Vt.  She  became  the  wife  of  Thomas  G.  Wells,  who  w*a  ftlao  *poct. 
II«'  lived  in  Amherst,  and  was  editor  of  The  AmhTSt  Herald.  In  1830  Mrs.  Weils 
published  a  volume  of  poems  and  juvenile  sketches. 


ASCUTNEY. 

In  a  low,  white-washed  cottage,  overrun 

With  mantling  vines,  and  sheltered  from  the  sun 

By  rows  of  maple-trees,  that  gently  moved 

Their  graceful  limbs  to  the  mild  breeze  they  loved, 

Oft  have  I  lingered — idle  it  might  seem, 

But  that  the  heart  was  bus}' ;  and  I  deem 

Those  minutes  not  misspent,  when  silently 

The  soul  communes  with  nature,  and  is  free. 

O'erlooking  this  low  cottage,  stately  stood 

The  huge  Ascutney ;  there,  in  thoughtful  mood, 

I  loved  to  hold  with  its  gigantic  form 

Deep  converse — not  articulate,  but  warm 

With  feeling's  noiseless  eloquence,  and  fit 

The  soul  of  nature  with  man's  soul  to  knit. 

In  various  aspect,  frowning  on  the  day, 

Or  touched  with  morning  twilight's  silvery  gray, 

Or  darkly  mantled  in  the  dusk}'  night, 

Or  by  the  moonbeams  bathed  in  showers  of  light — 

In  each,  in  all,  a  glory  still  was  there, 

A  spirit  of  sublimit}" ;  but  ne'er 

Had  such  a  might  of  lovliness  and  power 

The  mountain  wrapt,  as  when,  at  midnight  hour, 

It  saw  the  tempest  gather  round  its  head. 

'Twas  then  an  hour  of  joy,  yet  tinged  with  dread, 

As  the  deep  thunder  rolled  from  cloud  to  cloud, 

From  all  its  hidden  caves  it  cried  aloud  ; 

Wood,  cliff,  and  valle}r,  with  the  echo  rung ; 

From  rock  and  crag  darting,  with  forked  tongue 

The  lightning  glanced,  a  moment  laying  bare 

Its  naked  brow,  then  silence — darkness  there ! 

And  straight  again  the  tumult,  as  if  rocks 

llnd  split,  and  headlong  rolled.     B"ut  nature  mocks 

All  language  ;  these  are  scenes  I  ne'er  again 


DANIEL  DANA  TAPPAN.  75 

May  look  upon — but  precious  thoughts  remain 

On  memoir's  page  ;  and  ever  in  my  heart, 

Amid  all  other  claims,  that  mountain  hath  a  part. 


Baniel  Bana 


Daniel  D.  Tappan,  a  brother  of  William  B.  Tappan,  was  born  in  Newburyport, 
Mass.,  October  20,  179-S.  His  parents  removed  to  Portsmouth  so  soon  after  his 
birth  that  his  earliest  distinct  recollections  are  connected  with  Portsmouth,  where 
his  father  died  in  1806.  He  is  an  alumnus  of  Bowdoin  College,  of  the  class  of  18'2'2. 
He  studied  theology  at  New  Haven.  Conn.,  and  was  ordained  as  an  evangelist  in 
18-2«,  and  installed  as  pastor  of  a, church  in  Alfred,  Maine;  afterwards  and  later  at 
East  Marshfleld,  Mass.  He  has  also  supplied  churches  for  longer  or  shorter  terms, 
as  at  Farmington,  Franklin  and  Wakefield  in  this  State;  Biddeford,  Winthrop  and 
Weld  in  Maine.  He  resides  at  Weld,  still  preaching  at  times,  but  has  no  regular 
pastoral  charge. 


HYMN 

For  the  dedication  of  a  house  of  worship,  in  Farmington,  N.  H.  in  1870. 

Where  Jesus  taught,  and  toiled,  and  died, 

Once  shone  in  gold  the  house  of  God ; 
There,  thrice  each  year,  the  Hebrews  hied 

With  gifts,  obedient  to  his  word. 

But  Zion  now  is  everywhere, 

If  hearts  to  pray  and  praise  are  found  ; 

Gentile  and  Jew  may  blend  their  prayer ; 
Each  temple  site  is  holy  ground. 

And  so  this  fane  we  here  devote 

To  Him  whom  the}'  of  old  adored ; 
To  share  his  smiles,  while  we  promote 

The  honor  of  our  common  Lord. 

Shed  down,  O  Spirit,  on  our  souls, 

Sweet  influence  from  thy  blest  abode, 
That  love  which  hallows,  guides,  controls, 

And  fits  us  here  to  dwell  with  God. 


HYMN  TO  JESUS. 

To  sing  of  Jesus'  love 

With  hearts  enchained  by  sense, 
And  eyes  incased  in  films  of  sin, 

Is  but  a  vile  pretense. 

O,  were  these  orbs  illumed, 

And  sundered  were  these  chains, 

How  would  our  glorious  Lord  be  loved, 
And  praised  in  fitting  strains. 


76  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  secret  place  of  tears 

Might  well  pour  forth  a  flood, 

At  thought  of  our  ingratitude 
To  the  redeeming  God. 

We  la}*  our  spirits  low, 

O  Christ,  before  thy  throne  ; 

And  humbly  crave  a  gift  of  love 
Responsive  to  tliy  own. 

Then,  with  exultant  feet, 

We'll  trace  the  heavenly  road  ; 

Hasting,  with  eager  jo}',  to  meet 
Our  waiting,  gracious  Lord. 


HYMN  TO  THE  REDEEMER. 

My  Saviour !  'Tis  of  thee, 
Friend  of  all  friends  to  me, 

Of  thee  I  sing ; 
The  music  of  thy  name 
Should  ransomed  souls  inflame, 
While  hymning  their  acclaim 

To  Zion's  King. 

But  none  can  speak  thy  worth, 
Nor  all  the  tongues  of  earth 

Thy  love  portray  ; — 
The  work  of  praise  begun 
By  us,  beneath  the  sun, 
Must  through  the  cycles  run 

Of  endless  day. 

Dim  is  our  brightest  view, 
Thou  hoby,  just  and  true, 

Saviour,  of  thee, 
O,  clarify  our  sight, 
And  pour  celestial  light 
Upon  our  native  night, 

That  we  may  see. 

Then  shall  the  notes  we  rear, 
E'en  while  we  sojourn  here, 

Supernal  be : 
Fitting  our  souls  to  blend 
With  songs  that  never  end, 
And  teach  us  how  to  spend 

Eternitj-. 


DANIEL  DANA  TAPPAN.  77 

AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  by-gone  manners  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min', 
The  vfays  of  true  and  simple  life, 

The  days  of  Auld  Lang  S}'ne? 

Those  times  that  tried  the  boldest  souls, 

When,  led  by  hand  divine, 
Our  pilgrim  sires  here  sought  a  home  ; 

Those  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne  ? 

Their  iron  graces, — hearts  of  oak, — 

Men  made  for  work, — not  shine, — 
They  left  their  name  ;  a  rich  bequest, — 

Those  men  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

And  others,  since,  their  steps  have  tried, 

And  influence  left  benign, 
Whose  noble  deeds  well  prove  their  claim, 

As  sons  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Long  cherish  we  their  glorious  names, 

Nor,  yet,  the  hope  resign, 
That  3'ears  to  come  shall  emulate 

The  virtues  of  Lang  Syne. 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

Voyagers  !  whence  your  last  remove  ? 

Why  approach  this  sterile  shore  ? 
Stranger  !  leaving  lands  we  love, 

Came  we  here  our  God  to  adore. 

Pilgrims  !  terrors  throng  your  way  ; 

Foes  beset,  on  either  hand  ! 
Stranger  !  nothing  can  dismay 

Hearts  that  seek  this  barren  strand. 

Pilgrims !  dauntless  though  ye  seem, — 
Few  and  feeble  yet  ye  are  : 

Stranger,  they  who  trust  in  Him 
Never  of  their  cause  despair. 

Freedom's  banner  here  shall  wave  ; 

Israel's  helper  here  be  known  ; 
Myriads,  o'er  our  peaceful  grave, 

Laud  the  work  His  hand  hath  done. 


78  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

35tma 

Mrs.  Silver,  a  daughter  of  Moses  Hastings  and  Miriam  Tyler,  was  born  in  IIop- 
ki.nt.on  May  30,  1798.  She  married  Rev.  Ablel  Silver,  also  of  Hopkinton,  and  after 
living  live  years  in  the  State  of  New  York  near  the  St.  Lawrence,  they  removed  in 
Michigan,  where  they  dwelt  many  years.  On 'their  return  from  the  West  Mr.  Sil 
ver  preached  some  years  in  several  of  the  eastern  cities,  and  their  last  place  of  resi 
dence  was  at  Roxbury,  or  Boston  Highlands,  where  Mr.  Silver  established  a  chtirrh 
called  the  "New  Jerusalem  Church  of  Boston  Highlands."  Mr.  Silver  died  in 
March,  1881.  Mrs.  Silver  still  resides  in  Roxbury,  Mass. 


CHRISTMAS. 

Wonder  of  wonders  !  from  the  eternal  throne 
Divine  Shekinah  in  the  manger  shone ! 
Jehovah  Jesus,  in  that  lovely  child, 
Put  on  humanity,  though  undefiled. 
Did  earth  arise  and  mortals  bend  the  knee 
As,  "bowed  the  heavens,"  with  His  divinity? 
Alas,  the  wise  men  only,  from  afar, 
Brought  triple  gifts  and  saw  the  wondrous  star. 
The  good  old  Simeon  waiting  for  release 
Saw  His  salvation  and  departs  in  peace, 
And  Anna,  prophesying,  knew  the  Lord 
And  in  this  temple  recognised  "the  Word". 
The  watchful  shepherds,  tending  flocks  by  night, 
Saw  heaven  opened  and  beheld  the  light. 
"Glory  to  God"  resounded  from  the  skies 
And  faint  hosannas  from  the  earth  arise  ; 
A  heavenly  influx  came  down  from  above 
And  all  creation  felt  a  thrill  of  love  ; 
Though,  turned  to  hatred  by  the  wilful  throng, 
Ages  have  sung  and  still  repeat  the  song  ; 
Await  thy  second  coming  when  the  sun 
With  seven-fold  brightness  its  career  shall  run, 
When  sin  shall  cease  and  carnage,  fire  and  sword 
Shall  flee  before  the  power  of  Thy  Word, 
And  the  great  glory  of  Tlry  coming  prove  * . 

That  Wisdom's  brightness  is  inscribed  with  Love, 
The  watchmen  herald,  that  the  ushered  morn, 
Precedes  the  day  when  nations  shall  be  born, 
Thy  children  in  the  vale  send  up  the  cry 
O  "Come  Lord  Jesus,"  raise  our  thoughts  on  high. 
As  angels  sang  at  the  Redeemer's  birth 
"Glory  to  God,"  good  will,  and  peace  on  earth ; 
Ma}T  we  in  humbler  strains,  an  anthem  sing 
To  Him  who  comes  in  clouds,  of  kings  the  King, 
Opening  for  us  the  everlasting  doors 
Through  which  "this  King  of  glory"  radiance  pours, 


EDNA  HASTINGS  SILVER.  79 

Transfiguring  His  Word,  that  men  may  view 
His  kingdom  coming,  making  all  things  new. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

Silent  and  pure  a  gentle  dew-drop  fell, 
With  gathered  moisture,  in  a  fragrant  dell. 
A  flower,  most  grateful  for  the  blessing  given, 
Sends  up  its  incense  towards  the  spangled  heaven'. 
Soon  morning  comes — the  sun's  bright  rays  descend 
And  hues  prismatic  with  the  dew-drop  blend  ; 
In  beauty  flower,  globe,  sunlight,  all  combine 
To  point  beholders  to  a  power  divine. 
But  exhalations  rise  ; — the 'crystal  boon 
Has  gilded  earth  and  disappeared  ere  noon. 
Thus  a  sweet  babe  with  health  and  beauty  blest 
Came  a  rich  treasure — to  affection's  breast. 
The  parents,  grateful  for  the  immortal  loan, 
Sent  prayers  and  praises  to  "our  Father's"  throne. 
A  sphere  of  innocence   the  blessing  crowned 
And  hope's  bright  halo  gilds  the  circle  round  ; 
And  while  the}'  kiss  the  fond  one  and  rejoice 
An  angel  whispers  in  a  still  small  voice — 
"Come  hither  child  ;  in  love  thou  first  wast  given  ; 
Unchanging  Love  now  calls  thee  home  to  heaven." 


LINES. 

Go  ask  the  owl,  weak  man,  to  view  the  sun  ; 

Go  ask  the  torpid  sloth  a  race  to  run  ; 

Go  ask  the  mole  to  lecture  thee  on  light ; 

Go  ask  the  bat  to  expatiate  on  sight 

Go  ask  the  deaf  the  properties  of  sound, 

But  ask  not  earth  where  thy  true  jo}Ts  are  found, 

For  heaven  alone  can  fill  the  aching  void, 

And  teach  thee  where  to  choose  and  what  avoid. 

His  light  alone  dispels  the  sinner's  gloom, 

His  light  alone  the  dungeon  can  illume, 

Teach  woe  to  smile,  extract  affliction's  dart, 

"Bind  up  the  broken,  heal  the  wounded  heart," 

Relieve  the  heavy-laden  of  his  load, 

And  bring  estranged  affections  home  to  God. 


NATURE. 

Chaste  as  Diana  is  she  whom  I  love, 
Free  from  deceit  as  the  spirits  above, 


80  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Fair,  and  as  mild  as  sweet  Cynthia's  light, 

Pure  as  a  dew-drop  refreshing  the  night, 

Soothing  her  spell  as  she  acts  on  the  heart, 

Stealthily  there  she  engrosses  a  part ; 

And  though  mild  is  her  sway  and  her  language  so  sweet. 

Yet  envious  rivals  ne'er  bow  at  her  feet ! 

But  beautiful,  pure  and  sincere  though  she  be, 

So  chaste  and  so  rare,  yet  she  smiles  upon  me. 

Kindred  and  friends  would  }~ou  know  this  fair  dame? 

God  is  her  Maker,  and  Nature  her  name. 


MEMORY. 

See  Memory  o'er  spoils  in  vigil's  pore, 
AVon  from  old  Time,  a  consecrated  store. 
The  key  of  science  from  her  belt  depends  ; 
Before  her  lie  engravings  of  her  friends. 
Her  magic  glass,  to  nature  ever  true, 
Brings  bright  phantasmas  of  the  past  to  view, 
O'er  which  the  twilight  of  departed  years 
Steals  with  a  witchery  that  but  endears. 
She  guides  the  aged  pilgrim  joyful  back 
O'er  scenes  of  youth  in  talismanic  track ; 
Friend  after  friend  she  brings  before  his  eye, 
Till  the  wrapt  soul  is  lost  in  ecstacy. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  KNELL, 

On  the  19th  of  September,  1881,  when  President  Garfield  passed  into  a 
higher  state  of  existence. 

We  heard  the  midnight  bells  of  gloom 
That  oft  precede  the  opening  tomb, 
And  hearts  of  millions  felt  the  blow 
That  laid  our  country's  Chief  so  low. 
But  not  for  him — the  good,  the  wise — 
Those  tolling  bells  gave  warning  cries, 
But  to  our  country — party-torn — 
Now  humbled,  penitent,  and  lorn  ; 
For  goodness,  justice,  truth,  and  love 
Are  active  in  the  world  above. 
The  pearly  gates  were  opened  wide 
By  angels  on  the  other  side, 
And  saints  with  joy  received  him  home 
When  Heaven  in  mercy  bade  him  "Come." 
'Tis  said  that  fiercest  beast  of  pre}r 
Will  quail  before  the  eye's  keen  ray : 


SARAH  SMITH.  81 


So  the  vile  culprit  could  not  face 
The  high  resolve  that  power  and  place 
Be  given  to  patriots,  firm  and  sound, 
But  skulked  behind  and  gave  the  wound. 
Still  justice  reigns,  and  Heaven's  decree, 
That  earth  from  miscreants  shall  be  free, 
Will  daunt  the  weak  and  awe  the  strong 
Till  right  shall  triumph  over  wrong. 
God  of  the  nations,  will  that  knell 
Touch  vain  aspirants  ? — who  can  tell — 
Till  North  and  South,  and  East  and  West, 
Shall  join  in  union  and  be  blest? 
Then  noble  men  with  patriot  zeal  will  stand 
Bulwarks  of  strength  within  our  happy  land, 
And  Freedom's  banner,  like  the  bow  in  heaven, 
Prove  a  sure  covenant  with  earth, — God-given. 


This  very  young  writer  was  born  iu  Hanover  in  1799,  and  died  in  that  town,  Aug. 
17,  1812.     ' 


THE  WHITE  CLOVER. 

There  is  a  little  perfumed  flower 
That  well  might  grace  the  loveliest  bower, 
Yet  poet  never  deigned  to  sing 
Of  such  an  humble,  rustic  thing  ; 
Nor  is  it  strange,  for  it  can  show 
Scarcely  one  tint  of  Iris'  bow. 
Nature,  perchance,  in  careless  hour, 
With  pencil  dry  might  paint  the  flower, 
Yet  instant  blushed  her  fault  to  see, 
So  gave  it  double  fragrancy. 
Rich  recompense  for  aught  denied, 
Who  would  not  homely  garb  abide, 
If  gentlest  soul  were  breathing  there 
Blessings  throughout  its  little  sphere? 
Sweet  flower !  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught 
Shall  check  each  proud,  ambitious  thought ; 
Teach  me  internal  worth  to  prize, 
Though  found  in  lowliest,  rudest  guise  ! 


Thomas  C.  Upham,  LL.  D.  was  born  in  Deerfleld,  in  1799.  He  graduated  at 
Dartmouth  College  in  1818,  and  became  in  1825,  a  Congregational  minister.  Soon 
afterwards  he  was  made  professor  of  mental  and  moral  philosophy  in  Bowdoin 
College.  He  travelled  in  Europe,  Egypt,  and  Palestine,  and  was  an  author  of  nu 
merous  books.  He  died  in  1872. 


82  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  SPIRITUAL  TEMPLE. 

The  Temple,  once  that  brightly  shone 
On  proud  Moriah's  rocky  brow  ; 

Not  there  doth  God  erect  his  throne, 
Nor  build  his  place  of  beauty  now. 

The  sunbeam  of  the  orient  day 

Saw  nought  on  earth  more  bright  and  fair  ; 

But  desolation  swept  away, 

And  left  no  form  of  glory  there. 

But  God,  who  rear'd  that  chisel'd  stone, 

Now  builds  upon  a  higher  plan  ; 
And  rears  the  columns  of  his  throne, 

His  Temple — in  the  heart  of  man. 
\ 
Oh  man,  oh  woman  !     Know  it  well, 

Nor  seek  elsewhere  His  place  to  find, 
That  God  doth  in  this  Temple  dwell, 
The  Temple  of  the  holy  mind  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

Written  for  the  second  Centennial  Celebration  at  Dover,  1823. 

The  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail, 
The  blue  waves  curl  beneath  the  gale, 
And,  bounding  with  the  wave  and  wind, 
We  leave  Old  England's  shores  behind : 
Leave  behind  our  native  shore, 
Homes,  and  all  we  loved  before. 

The  deep  may  dash,  the  winds  may  blow, 

The  storm  spread  out  its  wings  of  woe, 

The  sailors'  eyes  can  see  a  shroud 

Hung  in  the  folds  of  every  cloud  ; 
Still,  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 
From  that  shore  we'll  speed  us  fast. 

For  we  would  rather  never  be, 
Than  dwell  where  mind  cannot  be  free, 
But  bows  beneath  a  despot's  rod, 
Even  where  it  seeks  to  worship  God. 

Blasts  of  heaven,  onward  sweep  ! 

Bear  us  o'er  the  troubled  deep  ! 

O  see  what  wonders  meet  our  eyes  ! 
Another  land  and  other  skies  ! 
Columbian  hills  have  met  our  view  ! 


THOMAS  C.  UPHAM.  83 


Adieu  !  Old  England's  shores  adieu  ! 
Here  at  length  our  feet  shall  rest, 
Hearts  be  free,  and  homes  be  blest. 

As  long  as  j'onder  firs  shall  spread 
Their  green  arms  o'er  the  mountain's  head  ; 
As  long  as  yonder  cliffs  shall  stand, 
Where  join  the  ocean  and  the  land, 

Shall  those  cliffs  and  mountains  be 

Proud  retreats  for  liberty. 

Now  to  the  King  of  kings  we'll  raise 
The  paean  loud  of  sacred  praise ; 
More  loud  than  sounds  the  swelling  breeze, 
More  loud  than  speak  the  rolling  seas  ! 

Happier  lands  have  met  our  view  ! 

England's  shores,  adieu  !  adieu  ! 


THE  INWARD  CHRIST. 

No  more  thou  walkest,  as  of  old, 
On  Judah's  hills  and  mountains  cold  ; 
With  damp  and  stormy  nights,  that  shed 
Their  dew  and  tempests  on  Thy  head  ; 
And  rocks  and  caverns  for  Thy  bed. 

The  weary,  fainting  steps  that  knew 

The  rock,  the  cave,  the  midnight  dew, 

How  great  the  change !  now  leave  their  trace 

In  souls  renewed,  in  hearts  of  grace, 

In  life's  interior  dwelling-place. 

No  more  Thou  walkest,  as  of  old, 
On  Judah's  hills  and  mountains  cold  ; 
In  holy  hearts  are  gardens  fair, 
And  gentle  streams,  and  balm}'  air ; 
And  flowers,  and  golden  skies  are  there. 


THE  LIVING  FOUNTAIN. 

I  hear  the  tinkling  camel's  bell 

Beneath  the  shade  of  Ebal's  mount, 

And  men  and  beast,  at  Jacob's  well, 
Bow  down  to  taste  the  saered  fount. 

Samaria's  daughter  too  doth  share 

The  draught  that  earthly  thirst  can  quell ; 

But  who  is  this  that  meets  her  there  ? 
What  voice  is  this  at  Jacob's  well? 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


"Ho!  ask  of  me,  and  I  will  give, 
From  my  own  life,  thy  life's  supply  ; 

/  am  the  fount !  drink,  drink  and  live  ; 
No  more  to  thirst,  no  more  to  die  !" 

Strange,  mystic  words,  but  words  of  heaven ; 

And  they  who  drink  to-day,  as  then, 
To  them  shall  inward  life  be  given  ; 

Their  souls  shall  never  thirst  again  ! 

THE  GREATNESS  OF  LOVE. 

Go,  count  the  sands  that  form  the  earth, 
Go,  count  the  drops  that  make  the  sea ; 

Go,  count  the  stars  of  heaven \y  birth, 
And  tell  me  what  their  numbers  be  ; 
And  thou  shalt  know  love's  mystery. 

No  measurement  hath  yet  been  found, 
No  lines  nor  numbers,  that  can  keep 

The  sum  of  its  eternal  round, 
The  plummet  of  its  endless  deep, 
Or  hights,  to  which  its  glories  sweep. 

Yes,  measure  love,  when  thou  canst  tell 
The  lands,  where  seraphs  have  not  trod, 

The  hights  of  heaven,  the  depths  of  hell, 
And  laid  thy  finite  measuring- rod, 
On  the  infinitude  of  God. 


SILENCE  UNDER  TRIALS. 

When  words  and  acts  untrue,  unkind, 
Against  thy  life  like  arrows  fly, 

Receive  them  with  a  patient  mind, 
Seek  no  revenge,  make  no  reply. 

O  hoi}'  silence  !  'tis  the  shield 

More  strong  than  warrior's  twisted  mail ; 
A  hidden  strength,  a  might  concealed, 

Which  worldly  shafts  in  vain  assail. 

He  who  is  silent  in  his  cause 

Hath  left  that  cause  to  heavenly  arms, 
And  Heaven's  eternal  aid  and  laws 

Are  swift  to  ward  the  threatening  harms. 

God  is  our  great  protecting  power ; 

Be  still,  the  Great  Defender  moves  ; 
He  watches  well  the  dangerous  hour, 

Nor  fails  to  save  the  child  he  loves. 


OLIVER  WILLIAM  BOURNE  PEABODY.  85 

©liber  SSJiUtam  ISotmw 

The  twin  brothers,  Oliver  and  William,  were  born  in  Exeter,  July  9, 1799.  Thev 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1810.  Oliver  studied  law  at  Cambridge,  and 
practised  in  his  native  town  eleven  years.  He  went  to  Boston  in  1826,  and  eu- 
Kiigcd  in  Journalism.  In  1845  he  turned  his  attention  to  theology,  and  became  a 
preacher  of  the  Unitarian  denomination  in  Burlington,  Vermont,  where  he  died  in 
1848.  In  1823  he  delivered  a  poem  at  Harvard  College,  and  not  long  afterwards 
another  poem  at  the  Centennial  anniversary  of  the  settlement  of  Portsmouth. 


LINES. 

0  who  that  has  gazed,  in  the  stillness  of  even, 
On  the  fast-fading  hues  of  the  west, 

Has  seen  not  afar,  in  the  bosom  of  heaven, 

Some  bright  little  mansion  of  rest, 
And  mourned  that  the  path  to  a  region  so  fair 

Should  be  shrouded  with  sadness  and  tears  ; 
That  the  night-winds  of  sorrow,  misfortune  and  care, 
Should  sweep  from  the  deep  rolling  waves  of  despair, 

To  darken  this  cold  world  of  tears? 

And  who  that  has  gazed  has  not  longed  for  the  hour 

When  misfortune  forever  shall  cease  ; 
And  hope,  like  the  rainbow,  unfold  through  the  shower 

Her  bright  written  promise  of  peace  ! 
And  O,  if  the  rainbow  of  promise  may  shine 

On  the  last  scene  of  life's  wintry  gloom, 
May  its  light  in  the  moment  of  parting  be  mine  ; 

1  ask  but  one  ray  from  a  source  so  divine, 
To  brighten  the  vale  of  the  tomb. 


TOO   EARLY  LOST. 

Too  lovely  and  too  early  lost ! 

My  memory  clings  to  thee, 
For  thou  wast  once  my  guiding  star 

Amid  the  treacherous  sea  ; 
But  doubly  cold  and  cheerless  now, 

The  wave  too  dark  before, 
Since  every  beacon  light  is  quenched 

Along  the  midnight  shore. 

I  saw  thee  first,  when  hope  arose 

On  youth's  triumphant  wing, 
And  thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  light 

Of  early  dawning  spring. 
Who  then  could  dream  that  health  and  joy 

Would  e'er  desert  the  brow 
So  bright  with  varying  lustre  once, 

So  ehill  and  changeless  now? 


86  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

That  brow  !  how  proudly  o'er  it  then 

Thy  kingly  beauty  hung, 
When  wit,  or  eloquence,  or  mirth, 

Came  burning  from  the  tongue  ! 
Or  when  upon  that  glowing  cheek 

The  kindling  smile  was  spread, 
Or  tears  to  thine  own  woes  denied, 

For  others'  griefs  were  shed  ! 

Thy  mind,  it  ever  was  the  home 

Of  high  and  holy  thought ; 
Thy  life,  an  emblem  of  pure  thoughts, 

Thy  pure  example  taught ; 
When  blended  in  thine  eye  of  light, 

As  from  a  royal  throne, 
Kindness,  and  peace,  and  virtue,  there 

In  mingled  radiance  shone. 

One  evening,  when  the  autumn  dew 

Upon  the  hills  was  shed, 
And  Hesperus,  far  down  the  west, 

His  starry  host  had  led, 
Thou  saidest,  how  sadly  and  how  soft, 

To  that  prophetic  eye, 
Visions  of  darkness  and  decline 

And  early  death  were  nigh. 

It  was  a  voice  from  other  worlds, 

Which  none  beside  might  hear, 
Like  the  night  breeze's  plaintive  tyre, 

Breathed  faintly  on  the  ear ;      • 
It  was  the  warning  kindly  given 

When  blessed  spirits  come 
From  their  bright  paradise  above, 

To  call  a  sister  home. 

How  sadlj*  on  my  spirit  then 

That  fatal  warning  fell ! 
But  O,  the  dark  reality 

Another  voice  may  tell ; 
The  quick  decline — the  parting  sigh — 

The  slowly  moving  bier — 
The  lifted  sod — the  sculptured  stone — 

The  unavailing  tear. 

The  amaranth  flowers,  that  bloom  in  heaven, 

Entwine  thy  temples  now  ; 
The  crown  that  shines  immortally 


OLIVER  WILLIAM  BOURNE  PEABODY.  87 

Is  beaming  on  thy  brow  ; 
The  seraphs  round  the  burning  throne 

Have  borne  thee  to  thy  rest, 
To  dwell  among  the  saints  on  high, 

Companions  of  the  blest. 

The  sun  hath  set  in  folded  clouds, 

It's  twilight  rays  are  gone, 
And  gathered  in  the  shades  of  night, 

The  storm  is  rolling  on. 
Alas  !  how  ill  that  bursting  storm 

The  fainting  spirit  braves, 
When  they,  the  lovely  and  the  lost, 

Are  gone  to  early  graves. 


STANZAS. 

I  love  the  memory  of  that  hour 

When  first  in  youth  I  found  thee  ; 
For  infant  beauty  gently  threw 

A  morning  freshness  round  thee  ; 
A  single  star  was  rising  there, 

With  mild  and  lovely  motion  ; 
And  scarce  the  zephyr's  gentle  breath 

Went  o'er  the  sleeping  ocean. 

I  love  the  memory  of  that  hour — 

It  wakes  a  pensive  feeling, 
As  when  within  the  winding  shell 

The  playful  winds  are  stealing ; 
It  tells  i%  heart  of  those  bright  years, 

Ere  hope  went  down  in  sorrow, 
When  all  the  joys  of  yesterday 

Were  painted  on  to-morrow. 

Where  art  thou  now  ?    Thy  once  loved  flowers 

Their  yellow  leaves  are  twining, 
And  bright  and  beautiful  again 

•The  single  star  is  shining. 
But  where  art  thou  ?     The  bended  grass 

A  dewy  stone  discloses, 
And  love's  light  footsteps  print  the  ground 

Where  all  my  peace  reposes. 

Farewell !     My  tears  were  not  for  thee ; 

'Twere  weakness  to  deplore  thee, 
Or  vainly  mourn  thine  absence  here, 

While'  angels  half  adore  thee. 


88  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy  days  were  few  and  quickly  told  ; 

Thy  short  and  mournful  story 
Hath  ended  like  the  morning  star, 

That  melts  in  deeper  glory. 


Itfourne  ©itbet  |Jeatotrg. 


An  account  of  the  birth  and  education  of  W.  B.  O.  Peabody  has  been  givou  in 
connection  with  that  of  his  twin-brother  Oliver.  Immediately  after  graduation  Kt 
Harvard  he  studied  theology,  and  when  ordained,  in  1820,  he  became  pastor  of  the 
Unitarian  church  in  Springfield,  Mass.,  and  it  was  there  that  his  whole  ministerial 
lite  was  passed.  He  died  May  28,  1847.  He  was  the  author  of  several  occasional 
poems,  and  a  volume  of  his  sermons  was  published  after  his  death. 


THE  AUTUMN  EVENING. 

Behold  the  western  evening  light ! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom  ; 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away, 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  winds  breathe  low ;  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree  ; 

So  gentty  flows  the  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed  ! 
'Tis  like  the  peace  the  Christian  gives 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 

How  mildly  on  the  wandering  cloud 
The  sunset  beam  is  cast !          ^ 

'Tis  like  the  memory  left  behind  * 
When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears  ; 
So  faith  springs  in  the  heart  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glory  shall  restore, 
And  eyelids  that  are  sealed  in  death 

Shall  wake  to  close  no  more. 


THE  RISING  MOON. 

The  moon  is  up !     How  calm  and  slow 
She  wheels  above  the  hill ! 


WILLIAM  BOURNE  OLIVER  PEABODY.  89 

The  weary  winds  forget  to  blow, 
And  all  the  world  lies  still. 

The  way-worn  travellers,  with  delight, 

The  rising  brightness  see, 
Revealing  all  the  paths  and  plains, 

And  gilding  every  tree. 

It  glistens  where  the  hurrying  stream 

Its  little  ripple  leaves  ; 
It  falls  upon  the  forest  shade, 

And  sparkles  on  the  leaves. 

So  once,  on  Judah's  evening  hills, 

The  heavenly  lustre  spread  ; 
The  gospel  sounded  from  the  blaze, 

And  shepherds  gazed  with  dread. 

And  still  that  light  upon  the  world 

Its  guiding  splendor  throws  ; 
Bright  in  the  opening  hours  of  life, 

But  brighter  at  the  close. 

The  waning  moon,  in  time,  shall  fail 

To  walk  the  midnight  skies  ; 
But  God  hath  kindled  this  bright  light 

With  fire  that  never  dies. 


THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

And  this  is  death,  how  cold  and  still, 

And  yet  how  lovely  it  appears  ; 
Too  cold  to  let  the  gazer  smile, 

But  far  too  beautiful  for  tears. 
The  sparkling  eye  no  more  is  bright, 

The  cheek  hath  lost  its  roselike  red  ; 
And  yet  it  is  with  strange  delight 

I  stand  and  gaze  upon  the  dead. 

But  when  I  see  the  fair  wide  brow, 

Half  shaded  by  the  silken  hair, 
That  never  looked  so  fair  as  now, 

When  life  and  health  were  laughing  there, 
I  wonder  not  that  grief  should  swell 

So  wildly  upward  in  the  breasf, 
And  that  strong  passion  once  rebel 

That  need  not,  cannot  be  suppressed. 


90  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  wonder  not  that  parents'  eyes 

In  gazing  thus  grow  cold  and  dim, 
That  burning  tears  and  aching  sighs 

Are  blended  with  the  funeral  hymn  ; 
The  spirit  hath  an  earthly  part, 

That  weeps  when  earthly  pleasure  flies, 
And  heaven  would  scorn  the  frozen  heart 

That  melts  not  when  the  infant  dies. 

And  yet  why  mourn  ?  that  deep  repose 

Shall  nevermore  be  broke  by  pain  ; 
Those  lips  no  more  in  sighs  unclose, 

Those  eyes  shall  never  weep  again. 
For  think  not  that  the  blushing  flower 

Shall  wither  in  the  church-yard  sod  : 
'Twas  made  to  gild  an  angel's  bower 

Within  the  paradise  of  God. 

Once  more  I  gaze,  and  swift  and  far 

The  clouds  of  death  in  sorrow  fly  : 
I  see  thee  like  a  new-born  star 

Move  up  thy  pathway  in  the  sky ; 
The  star  hath  ra}Ts  serene  and  bright, 

But  cold  and  pale  compared  with  thine ; 
For  thy  orb  shines  with  heavenly  light, 

With  beams  unfailing  and  divine. 

Then  let  the  burdened  heart  be  free, 

The  tears  of  sorrow  all  be  shed, 
And  parents  calmly  bend  to  see 

The  mournful  beauty  of  the  dead  ; 
Thrice  happy,  that  their  infant  bears 

To  heaven  no  darkening  stains  of  sin, 
And  only  breathed  life's  morning  airs 

Before  its  evening  storms  begin. 

Farewell !  I  shall  not  soon  forget, — 

Although  thy  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat, 
My  memory  warmly  treasures  yet 

Thy  features  calm  and  mildly  sweet ; 
But  no,  that  look  is  not  the  last ; 

We  yet  may  meet  where  seraphs  dwell, 
Where  love  no  more  deplores  the  past, 

Nor  breathes  that  withering  word,  Farewell ! 


MONADNOC. 

Upon  the  far-off  mountain's  brow 
The  angry  storm  has  ceased  to  beat, 


WIL  LI  A  M  BO  URNE  OLIVER  PEABOD  Y.       g 1 

And  broken  clouds  are  gathering  now, 

In  lowly  reverence  round  his  feet. 
I  saw  their  dark  and  crowded  bands 

On  his  firm  head  in  wrath  descending, 
But  there  once  more  redeemed  he  stands, 

And  heaven's  clear  arch  is  o'er  him  bending. 

I've  seen  him  when  the  rising  sun 

Shone  like  a  watch-fire  on  the  height ; 
I've  seen  him  when  the  day  was  done, 

Bathed  in  the  evening's  crimson  light ! 
I've  seen  him  in  the  midnight  hour, 

When  all  the  world  beneath  were  sleeping, 
Like  some  lone  sentry  in  his  tower, 

His  patient  watch  in  silence  keeping. 

And  there,  as  ever,  steep  and  clear,       i* 

That  pyramid  of  nature  springs  ! 
He  owns  no  rival  turret  near, 

No  sovereign  but  the  King  of  kings. 
AVhile  man}'  a  nation  hath  passed  by, 

And  many  an  age,  unknown  in  story, 
His  walls  and  battlements  on  high 

He  rears,  in  melancholy  glory. 

And  let  a  world  of  human  pride, 

With  all  its  grandeur,  melt  away, 
And  spread  around  his  rocky  side 

The  broken  fragments  of  decay. 
Serene  his  hoary  head  will  tower, 

Untroubled  by  one  thought  of  sorrow ; 
He  numbers  not  the  weary  hour, 

He  welcomes  not  nor  fears  to-morrow. 

Farewell !  I  go  my  distant  way  ; 

Perhaps,  not  far  in  future  years, 
The  eyes  that  glow  with  smiles  to-day, 

May  gaze  upon  thee,  dim  with  tears. 
Then  let  me  learn  from  thee  to  rise, 

All  time  and  chance  and  change  defying ;  ' 
Still  pointing  upward  to  the  skies, 

And  on  the  inward  strength  relying. 

If  life  before  m}-  weary  e3Te 

Grows  fearful  as  an  angry  sea, 
Thy  memor}'  shall  suppress  the  sigh 

For  that  which  never  more  can  be. 


92  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Inspiring  all  within  the  heart 

With  firm  resolve  and  strong  endeavor, 

To  act  a  brave  and  faithful  part, 

Till  life's  short  warfare  ends  forever. 


OTalet 


Caleb  Stark  was  the  eldest  son  of  Major  Caleb  Stark.  He  Inherited  the  old  Star'* 
mansion  aud  surrounding  estate  at  Dunbarton,  and  was  a  writer  of  repute,  briu^ 
tlie  author  of  a  valuable  memoir  of  his  father  and  grandfather.  lie  died  in  JSIM. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LUNDY'S  LANE. 

In  other  da}*s  yon  fatal  hill 

Glittered  with  arms  and  waved  with  plumes, 
When  the  sad  sunset  on  their  steel 

Flashed  its  last  splendors  ;  even's  glooms 
Rang  with  the  bugle's  martial  breath 
That  called  the  brave  to  deeds  of  death. 

Then  the  dismal  cry  of  slaughter 

Broke  on  midnight's  slumbering  hour ; 
And  the  parched  ground  drank  blood  like  water, 

As  beneath  the  deadly  shower 
Of  musket  and  artillery, 
With  motto  calm  yet  bold,  "I'll  try," 

The  bristling  ranks  move  on, 
Mid  deafening  thunder,  sulphurous  flash, 
And  shouts,  and  groans,  and  forces  crash, 
Till  hark  !  the  sharp,  clear  baj^ouet's  clash, 

Tells  that  the  work  is  done. 

There  deeds  of  deathless  praise  proclaim, 
How  rolled  war's  tide  when  Ripley's  name 

Swelled  the  wild  shout  of  victor}' ; 
And  dauntless  Miller  and  McNeil 
Led  foremost,  in  the  strife  of  steel, 

The  flower  of  northern  chivalry  ; 
While  Scott  from  British  brows  then  tore 
'The  laurels  dyed  in  Gallic  gore  ! 

But  these  terrific  scenes  are  past ; 
The  peasants'  slumbers,  the  wild  blast 

Alone  shall  break  them, 
And  those  proud  bannered  hosts  are  gone, 
Where  the  shrill  trumpet's  charging  tone 

No  more  may  wake  them. 


BENJAMIN  SHOWN  FRENCH.  93 

Time  in  his  flight  has  swept  away 

Each  vestige  of  the  battle  fray, 

Save  that  the  traveller  views  around 

The  shattered  oak — the  grass-grown  mound 

That  shrines  a  hero's  ashes  ! 
Peace  to  the  brave  !  around  their  stone 
Shall  Freedom  twine  her  rosy  wreath, 
And,  though  with  moss  of  years  o'ergrown, 
Fame  shall  applaud  their  glorious  death, 

Long  as  Niagara  dashes  ! 


Benjamin  Proton 


B.  B.  French  was  born  in  Chester  in  1800.  He  studied  law  with  his  father,  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1825,  after  which  he  practised  in  Hooksett  and  in  Button. 
He  went  to  Newport  in  1827,  and  became  editor  and  a  proprietor  of  the  N.  H.  Spec 
tator.  In  1834  he  removed  to  the  city  of  Washington.  He  was  assistant  clerk  of 
the  U.  8.  House  of  Representatives  in  1833,  and  clerk  in  1845.  He  died  Aug.  12,  1870. 


THE  MAIDEN  AT  CHURCH. 

Suggested  by  seeing  a  maiden-lady  at  church,  whom  the  author  has  seen  there 
ever  since  he  can  remember. 

There  doth  she  sit — that  same  old  girl 

Whom  I  in  boyhood  knew  ; 
She  seems  a  fixture  to  the  church, 

In  that  old  jail-like  pew  ! 

Once  she  was  young — a  blooming  Miss, 

So  do  the  aged  say  ; 
Though  e'en  in  youth,  I  think  she  must 

Have  had  an  old  like  way. 

How  prim,  and  starched,  and  kind  she  looks, 

And  so  devout  and  staid  ! 
I  wonder  some  old  bachelor 

Don't  wed  that  good  old  maid  ! 

She  does  not  look  so  very  old, 

Though  years  and  years  are  by 
Since  any  }-ounger  she  has  seemed, 

E'en  to  my  boyhood's  eye. 

That  old  straw  bonnet  she  has  on, 

Tied  with  that  bow  of  blue, 
Seems  not  to  feel  Time's  cankering  hand, 

'Tis  "near  as  good  as  new." 

That  old  silk  gown — the  square-toed  shoes, 
Those  gloves — that  buckle's  gleam  ; 


94  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

That  silver  buckle  at  her  waist, 
To  me,  like  old  friends  seem. 

Live  on,  live  on,  and  may  the  years 
Touch  lightty  on  thy  brow  ; 

As  I  beheld  thee  in  my  3Touth, 
And  as  I  see  thee  now  ; 

Ma}r  I,  when  age  its  furrows  deep 
Have  ploughed  upon  my  cheek, 

Behold  thee  in  that  pew,  unchanged, 
So  prim,  so  mild,  so  meek ! 


THOUGHTS  ON  VISITING  THE  PLACE  OF  MY 
NATIVITY. 

The  silver  threads  that  mingle  with 

The  auburn  on  my  brow, 
Warn  me  that  Time's  relentless  hand 

Is  busy  with  me  now  ; 
But  here,  among  my  native  hills, 

The  thoughts  of  age  depart, 
And  all  the  glow  of  sunny  youth 

Comes  bounding  through  my  heart. 

Can  I  be  old  ?  There  stands  the  tree 

From  which,  but  yesterday, 
This  very  hand,  in  clusters  bright, 

Bore  the  ripe  fruit  away  ; 
And  is  not  that  my  father's  house 

Which  stands  upon  the  hill? 
And  there,  upon  the  brawling  stream, 

Clatters  the  busy  mill. 

"You  are  not  old" — thus  Fane}*  said, 

As  in  a  dream-like  mood, 
Gazing  on  all  these  youthful  scenes, 

Within  the  vale  I  stood. 
I  turned — delusive  Fancy  fled — 

A  monitress  to  me, 
Stern  and  sincere  Heaven's  earth-born  child, 

Stood  grave  Reality. 
Clothed  in  the  sacred  garb  of  Truth, 

With  mourning  on  her  brow. 
She  whispered  sadly  in  mine  ear, 

"Where  is  that  father  now? 
And  where  are  man}-,  once  beloved, 


BENJAMIN  BRO  WN  FRENGH.  9f> 

Who  roved,  'mid  summer's  bloom, 
These  dells  with  us,  all  life  and  joy  ? 

Alas,  within  the  tomb  ! 
And,  ah,  that  'yesterday'  of  thine! 

Years — years  have  passed  awa}r, 
And  what  a  train  of  vast  events 

Divides  it  from  to-day  I 
Those  hands  that  bore  the  ripened  fruit 

Were  }"oung  and  tinj-  then, 
While  now  with  thews  and  sinews  strong, 

They  cope  their  wa}7  with  men  ; 
The  mill  that  clatters  by  the  stream 

By  man  has  been  renewed, 
Nought,  save  the  tree,  the  rock,  the  hill, 

Stand  now  as  then  they  stood  !" 

A  troop  of  children  passed  me  by 

In  all  their  noisy  glee, 
And  voices  shouted,  loud  and  clear, 

Familiar  names  to  me — 
The.  names  of  those  whom  once  I  knew  — 

The  absent  and  the  dead, 
Another  generation  trod 

The  paths  I  used  to  tread. 

Though  strangers  dwell  within  the  halls 

Where  once  my  fathers  dwelt, 
Though  strangers  at  the  altar  kneel, 

Where  once  my  father  knelt. 
The  place  remains  where  boyhood's  years 

So  smoothly  o'er  me  rolled, 
And,  standing  here,  I  almost  deem 

Years  cannot  make  me  old ! 


SONG  FOR  THE  ATLANTIC  CABLE  CELEBRATION, 

At  Appledore  Island,  Isle  of  Shoals,  Thursday,  Aug.  19, 1858. 

The  outside  world  is  boiling  o'er 

With  all  the  joy  it's  able  ? 
Why  should  not  we  of  Appledore 

Just  celebrate  "The  Cable?" 
And  ladies  dear,  you'll  join,  we  know, 

This  glorious  celebration, 
For,  how  the  sparks  will  come  and  go 

From  Nation  unto  Nation ! 


96  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Yankee  doodle,  keep  it  down, 
The  cord  beneath  the  deep,  sir, 

Two  worlds  are  joined.    To  bless  th'  event 
Our  revels  we  will  keep,  sir. 

Time  was  when  ghosts  were  sent  to  dwell 

In  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  sir, 
By  prayer  and  candle,  book  and  bell, 

No  further  plague  to  be,  sir, 
But  now  they've  laid  a  spirit  there — 

A  mighty  spirit,  too,  sir, 
Whom  neither  book,  nor  bell,  nor  prayer 

Can  silence,  or  can  do,  sir. 

Yankee  doodle,  keep  it  down,  etc. 

And  spirits  oft  of  evil  name, 

Have  entered  into  man,  sir, 
Till  "half  seas  over"  he  became 

Before  his  voyage  began,  sir — 
But  now  they'll  whisper  in  his  ear 

By  lightning,  without  thunder — 
And  all  the  spirits  he  shall  hear 

Shall  come  from  whole  seas  wider! 
Yankee  doodle,  etc. 

No  more  the  lagging  ship  we'll  greet — 

The  fifteen,  twenty  miler — 
We'll  have  the  news  ere  she  can  heat   ' 

The  water  in  her  boiler ! 
When  Vic  sits  down  to  take  her  tea, 

Or  Jeemes  sits  down  to  dine,  sir, 
Ere  they  get  up,  beneath  the  sea 

They'll  hob  nob  o'er  their  wine,  sir  ! 
Yankee  doodle,  etc. 

John  Bull  can  hardly  damn  his  eyes 

Or  Jonathan  say  darn  it, 
Before,  by  tell-tale  sprite  advice, 

The  other  side  shall  larn  it ! 
As  one,  two  nations  shall  increase, 

Though  ocean  roll  between  'em — 
The  Cable — a  bright  bond  of  peace — 

From  fighting  e'er  shall  screen  'em. 
Yankee  doodle,  etc. 

Then  bless  the  wire  where  now  it  lies, 

The  ocean  bed  along,  sir — 
Earth's  greatest  hope,  the  sea's  great  prize — 

Bless  it  in  prayer  and  song,  sir ! 


BENJAMIN  BROWN  FRENCH.  97 

Bless  it,  and  pray  it  may  grow  old, 

For  now  'tis  in  its  youth,  sir — 
When  years  pass  on,  lay  centuries  told, 

May  it  lie  to  tell  the  truth,  sir ! 
Yankee  doodle,  etc. 

Now  in  old  Father  Neptune's  care, 

As  well  as  we  are  able, 
We  place,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  prayer, 

The  Atlantic  Ooean  Cable  ! 
And  now  three  cheers  for  Appledore, 

Where  ocean  round  us  rolls,  sir — 
For  the  ladies  fair,  one  Tiger  more  ! 

God  bless  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  sir ! 
Yankee  doodle,  etc. 


HYMN  COMPOSED  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

'Tis  holy  ground — 
This  spot,  where,  in  their  graves, 
We  place  our  country's  braves, 
Who  fell  in  Freedom's  holy  cause, 
Fighting  for  liberties  and  laws  ; 

Let  tears  abound. 

Here  let  them  rest ; 
And  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold 
Shall  glow  and  freeze  above  this  mould — 
A  thousand  years  shall  pass  away — 
A  nation  still  shall  mourn  this  clay, 

Which  now  is  blest. 

Here  where  they  fell, 
Oft  shall  the  widow's  tears  be  shed, 
Oft  shall  fond  parents  mourn  their  dead, 
The  orphan  here  shall  kneel  and  weep, 
And  maidens,  where  their  lovers  sleep, 

Their  woes  shall  tell. 

Great  God  in  Heaven  ! 
Shall  all  this  sacred  blood  be  shed? 
Shall  we  thus  mourn  our  glorious  dead  ? 
Oh,  shall  the  end  be  wrath  and  woe  ; 
The  knell  of  Freedom's  overthrow, 

A  country  riven  ? 

It  will  not  be  ! 

We  trust,  O  God  !  thy  gracious -power 
To  aid  us  in  our  darkest  hour. 


98  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

This  be  our  prayer — "O  Father !  save 
A  people's  freedom  from  its  grave. 
All  praise  to  Thee  !" 


THE  LAST  WORDS  OF  JOHN  BROWN. 

When  brave  old  John  Brown,  whose  fame  Is  now  immortal,  stood  upon  the  gal- 
Iowa,  with  the  cap  drawn  over  his  eyes,  a  handkerchief  was  tendered  to  him,  which 
he  was  told  to  drop  when  he  was  ready.  He  Indignantly  refused  it,  saying  sternly  : 
"John  Brown  is  always  ready—  Virginia  drops  the  handkerchief!" 

A  stern,  brave  man  of  iron  nerve 

Stood  on  the  gallows  tree, 
A  martyr  to  the  noble  thought 

That  all  mankind  are  free  ; 
For  threescore  years  that  thought  had  burned 

Into  his  soul,  so  brave, 
Till  he  believed  it  came  from  God 

That  he  should  free  the  slave  ! 
He  passed  through  trouble,  grief,  and  woe, 

No  murmuring  word  he  spoke  ; 
Stern  in  his  purpose — firm  he  stood, 

As  stands  the  mountain  oak  ; 
Nor  friend  nor  foe  could  move  his  soul 

To  swerve  from  his  intent ; 
The  time,  he  thought,  at  last  had  come — 

Bold  to  his  work  he  went ! 
Alas  !  that  arm,  though  nerved  with  Truth, 

Essayed  too  great  a  deed, 
It  bravely  struck  and  boldly  too — 

It  battled  but  to  bleed  ! 
The  man,  borne  down  and  overcome, 

Was  forced  at  last  to  yield  ; 
But  the  brave  soul,  defiant  still, 

Its  mighty  strength  revealed, 
And  e'en  the  bravest,  cowered  and  quailed 

Beneath  that  eagle  eye, 
Which,  all  the  petty  tyrant's  rage 

It  did  in  scorn  defy ! 
A  trial ! — 'twas  a  mockery — 

Condemned  this  man  to  death  ; 
With  cheek  unblanched,  he  scorned  their  power, 

E'en  with  his  latest  breath  ; 
And  when,  upon  the  gallows-tree 

This  brave  old  hero  stood, 
Prepared,  in  Freedom's  holy  cause, 

To  sacrifice  his  blood, 


NATHANIEL  GOOKIN  UPHAM.  yy 


When  asked  the  sign  of  death  to  give, 

Replied,  in  accents  steady, 
u  Virginia  drops  the  handkerchief — • 

John  Brown  is  always  ready ! ! " 

Virginia  dropped  the  handkerchief! 

And  brave  John  Brown  is  gone  ! 
But,  ah,  she  finds  her  ruin,  while 

"His  soul  is  marching  on." 

The  man  whom  all  men  thought  was  crazed, 

When  tyrants  he  defied, 
Saw  the  great  future  deeper  far 

Than  all  the  world  beside  ! 


TSTatijantel 


N.  G.  Upham,  LL.  D.,  was  a  native  of  Rochester,  born  In  1801.  He  graduated  at 
Partmouth  College  in  1820,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  In  Strafford  County.  He 
opened  an  office  at  Bristol,  but  afterwards  settled  in  Concord.  From  1833  to 
1843  he  was  one  of  the  judges  of  the  Superior  Court,  and  in  1853  was  commissioner 
to  London,  "for  adjustment  of  claims  between  citizens  of  the  United  States  and 
Great  Britain,  against  the  government  of  either  country."  After  his  resignation  of 
ihe  office  of  Judge  of  the  Superior  Court  he  became  general  agent  of  the  Concord 
Uailroad,  remaining  in  tttat  position  nearly  to  the  close  of  his  life.  He  died  in  JS(W. 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 

To  thee,  O  God,  with  joy  we  raise, 
In  these  thy  courts,  our  songs  of  praise, 
And  dedicate  this  shrine  to  thee, 
Sacred,  incarnate  Mystery. 

So  when  thy  chosen  temple  rose 
O'er  Judea's  land  of  fearful  woes, 
Th}'  children  met  in  gladness  there, 
To  consecrate  thine  house  with  prayer. 

And  now,  in  western  lands  afar, 
Led  hither  by  thy  Bethlehem  star, 
God  of  our  fathers  !  while  we  here 
Erect  thine  altars,  be  thou  near ! 

There  be  thy  power  and  glory  known 
By  clouds  of  incense  from  thy  throne  ; 
And  here,  the  broken-heartea  soul, 
At  touch  of  thine,  be  rendered  whole. 

There  sacred  symbols  often  prove 
To  grateful  hearts  thy  dying  love ; 
And  life's  young  hours  with  joy  begin 
With  sprinklings  from  thy  crystal  spring. 


100  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

There  may  thy  banner  wave  abroad, 
Inscribed  with  "Holiness  to  the  Lord  ;" 
And  peace  and  love,  long  years  to  come, 
Make  this  our  favored  Gospel  Home. 


Rev.  Amos  Blanchard  was  born  in  Peacham,  Vt.(  in  1801.  He  graduated  at  An- 
dover  Theological  Seminary  In  1828,  and  became  pastor  of  the  Congregational 
church  in  Warner  in  1837.  In  1840  he  removed  to  Meriden,  and  was  pastor  of  the 
church  at  Kimball  Union  Academy,  where  he  remained  till  near  the  close  of  his 
life.  He  died  in  his  native  town  in  1869. 


AN  EVENING  IN  THE  GRAVE-YARD. 

The  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star 

Shines  lovely  from  its  home  of  blue — 

The  fox-howl's  heard  on  the  fell  afar, 
And  the  earth  is  robed  in  a  sombre  hue  ; 

From  the  shores  of  light  the  beams  come  down, 

On  the  river's  breast,  and  cold  grave  stone. 

The  kindling  fires  o'er  heaven  so  bright 
Look  sweetly  out  from  yon  azure  sea ; 

While  the  glittering  pearls  of  the  dewy  night 
Seem  trying  to  mimick  their  brilliancy  ; 

Yet  all  those  charms  no  joy  can  bring 

To  the  dead,  in  the  cold  grave  slumbering. 

To  numbers  wild,  yet  sweet  withal, 

Should  the  harp  be  struck  o'er  the  sleepy  pillow, 
Soft  as  the  murmuring,  breezy  fall 

Of  sighing  winds  on  the  foamy  billow ; 
For  who  would  disturb  in  their  silent  bed 
The  fancied  dreams  of  the  lowly  dead  ? 

Oh !  is  there  one  in  this  world  can  say 
That  the  soul  exists  not  after  death  ? 

That  the  powers  which  illumine  this  mould  of  cla\' 
Are  but  a  puff  of  common  breath? 

Oh  !  come  this  night  to  the  grave  and  see 

The  sleep}'  sloth  of  your  destiny. 

The  night's  soft  voice,  in  breathings  low, 
Imparts  a  calm  to  the  breast  of  the  weeper : 

The  water's  dash  and  murmuring  flow 

No  more  will  soothe  the  ear  of  the  sleeper, 

Till  He,  who  slept  on  Judah's  plains, 

Shall  burst  death's  cold  and  icy  chains. 


MART  CUTTS.  101 


I've  seen  the  moon  gild  the  mountain's  brow, 
I've  watched  the  mist  o'er  the  river  stealing, 

But  ne'er  did  I  feel  in  my  breast,  till  now, 
So  deep,  so  calm,  and  so  holy  a  feeling: 

'Tis  soft  as  the  thrill  which  memorj-  throws 

Athwart  the  soul  in  the  hour  of  repose. 

Thou  Father  of  all !  in  the  worlds  of  light, 
Fain  would  my  spirit  aspire  to  thee  ; 

And  through  the  scenes  of  this  gentle  night, 
Behold  the  dawn  of  eternity  : 

For  this  is  the  path,  which  thou  hast  given, 

The  only  path  to  the  bliss  of  Heaven. 


J&arg 


Miss  Cults  "was  born  in  Portsmouth,  April  4,  1801.  Her  father,  Edward  Cutts, 
was  |at  one  time  a  shipping  merchant,  engaged  in  East  India  trade,  and  at  his 
death  president  of  the  First  National  Bank  of  Portsmouth.  She  was  great-grand 
daughter  of  President  Holyoke  of  Harvard  College.  In  1832  she  left  Portsmouth 
with  her  brother,  the  late  Hampden  Cutts,  who  with  his  wife,  a  daughter  of  Consul 
Jarvis,  went  to  North  Hartland,  Vermont,  to  reside.  In  1860  she  went  to  Brattle- 
boro'  Vt.,  with  her  brother's  family,  and  remained  there  until  1879,  when  she  went 
to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  to  reside  with  a  niece,  Mrs.  Howard.  She  died  in  that  city, 
May  20, 1882.  Miss  Cutts  issued  two  volumes  of  verse.  The  first-was  a  sprightly 
miscellaneous  collection  called  "The  Autobiography  of  a  Clock;"  the  second  was 
entitled  "Grondalla,"  a  romance  in  verse,  founded  on  incidents  in  the  history  of 
her  own  family  in  Portsmouth. 


SEA  SHELLS. 

Bright,  radiant  shells  from  foreign  climes, 

How  beautiful  ye  are, 
Decked  with  the  roseate  tints  ye  bring 

From  native  shore  afar ! 

I  love  your  colors  and  your  shine, 
Stray  ones  from  other  shores  ; 

But  3*et  a  deeper  grace  ye  have, 
A  dearer  charm  is  yours. 

Ye  bring  the  mighty  ocean's  roar 

Within  your  little  space, 
As  if  no  change,  no  new  abode, 

Its  memory  could  efface. 

Ah  !  others  praise  your  glowing  hues  : 

More  wonderful  to  me, 
Than  even  the  most  gorgeous  tints, 

These  whispers  of  the  sea. 

seem  to  speak  of  hidden  power : 
And  yet  it  is  not  so  : 


102  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Strange,  strange  it  is  that  3*0  should  bring 
The  raging  water's  flow  ! 

Ah  !  it  is  strange  that  what  we  love 

In  jo}*ous,  early  day, 
Should  never,  never  from  the  soul, 

The  spirit,  fade  away  ! 

Then  sing,  sweet  shells,  sing  on  and  tell 

Of  the  old  ocean's  roar  : 
It  was  your  first  love,  and  aught  else 

Shall  vanish  that  before. 

When  first  created,  weak  and  frail, 
The  mighty  sound  }-e  heard, 

And  now  no  music  of  the  land, 
No  zephyr,  song  of  bird 

Will  e'er  efface  it.     Be  it  so. 

Sing  on  :  ye  bring  to  me 
The  dashing  bound,  the  foaming  spray, 

The  glory  of  the  sea  ! 

I  seem  to  view  the  curling  wave, 

I  hear  the  whizzing  gush, 
As  bright  and  clear,  as  swift  and  bold 

The  sparkling  waters  rush. 

Then  ever  breathe  the  song  to  me 
That  tells  of  native  shore  : 

I  love  your  beauty ;  for  this  charm, 
Bright  ones,  I  love  younnore. 


SONG. 

I  knew  a  hearth  where  bright  eyes  met : 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 
For  round  that  hearth  there  only  thronged 

The  sweet,  the  pure,  the  glad. 

Alas  !  how  much  is  in  the  word, 

That  jsimple  word,  I  knew  ! 
Yet  can  we  ever  cease  to  love]] 

The  beautiful  and  true? 

Ah  !  'mid  the  varied  scenes  of  life, 

Its  hour  of  woe  or  mirth, 
How  oft  my  heart  will  wander  back 

To  that  beloved  hearth  ; 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  HAMMOND.  103 

And  trust,  though  years  may  desolate 

That  once  so  cherished  spot, 
There  may  remain  one  gentle  heart 

That  will  forget  me  not ! 

I  knew  a  hearth  where  bright  eyes  met : 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad  ? 
For  round  that  hearth  there  only  thronged 

The  sweet,  the  pure,  the  glad. 


THE  FATED. 

I  saw  a  picture  once,  or  had  a  dream, — 

I  know  not  which  ;  but  oft  there  comes  a  gleam 

Across  my  mind  of  what  it  did  portra}r. 

It  was  a  stormy,  wild,  tempestuous  day  ; 

And  a  poor  sailor  on  a  rock  is  cast, 

With  nought  to  shield  him  from  the  angry  blast. 

Alone  he  stands  ;  and,  far  as  eye  can  reach, 

There  is  no  sign  of  ship  or  isle  or  beach  : 

Nought  seen  but  ocean, — ocean  all  around, 

With  its  tumultuous  heaves, — no  other  sound  : 

No  form  but  his,  no  human  arm  to  save, 

As  wave  on  wave  came  tumbling  over  wave. 

The  ocean  roared  and  beat  and  splashed  and  fumed  ; 

Still  on  his  craggy  rock  stood  firm  the  doomed. 

I  heard  it  rave — oh  !  terrible  the  sound  ! 

Darker  and  darker  grew  the  clouds  around  ; 

Not  yet  the  fated  from  his  rock  is  riven  : 

Yet  is  he  there, — there,  with  his  eye  on  heaven. 


Dr.  Hammond  was  born  in  Gilsum,  May  12, 1802.  He  was  educated  at  Alstead 
Academy;  studied  medicine  and  graduated  in  1824  from  the  Dartmouth  Medical 
College.  He  settled  first  in  Richmond,  and  afterwards  in  Proctorsville,  Vt.  He 
returned  to  his  native  town  in  1830.  In  1866  he  removed  to  Stockbridge,  N.  Y. 
where  he  died  Jan.  30. 1872.  He  was  a  delegate  to  the  Constitutional  Convention, 
of  1850,  and  served  his  district  as  State  Senator  in  1855  and  '56. 


THE  PROSPECT. 

A  hundred  years  hence  A  hundred  years  hence, 

What  a  change  will  be  made      And  less  I  am  thinking, 

In  customs  and  morals,  Will  no  silly  pretence 

In  taverns  and  trade  ;  Be  made  for  rum-drinking 

In  landlords  who  fatten,  Let  the  vender  now  revel, 

Upon  the  fool's  pence  ;  All  people  of  sense 

How  things  will  be  altered  Will  think  him  a  devil, 

A  hundred  years  hence.  A  hundred  years  hence. 


104  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Our  laws  they  will  then,  A  hundred  j'ears  hence, 

In  my  humble  belief,  What  wonder  'twill  give 

Place  rumselling  men  That  we  ever  suffered 

Along  with  the  thief,  Rumsellers  to  live  ? 

And  rumselling  deem  That  they  were  not  punished 

The  greater  offence  ;  With  vengeance  intense, 

Even  so  it  will  seem  All  will  be  astonished 

A  dozen  years  hence.  A  hundred  years  hence. 

Rumsellers'  attention  A  hundred  years  hence, 

They  then  may  bestow  When  a  Barnum  comes  round, 

On  raising  potatoes  Among  his  rare  shows 

Or  learning  to  mow,  *  Prefme  ^  ,be  found 

„.  The  last  rumseller  s  skin, 
Or  some  honest  calling  gtuffed    and    dresged    in   hls 

They  choose  to  commence,  clothes 

For  their  trade  will  be  ended,  And  the  monkeys  will  grin, 
A  hundred  years  hence.  As  they  twig  his  red  nose. 


FOR  A  FRIEND'S  ALBUM. 

The  picture  on  the  previous  page 

Presents  a  lovers'  scene, 
Where  love  their  youthful  hearts  engage 

While  seated  on  the  green. 

Burns  clasps  his  lassie  in  his  arms 

And  dreams  of  future  bliss, 
Enraptured  by  her  many  charms, 

He  fondly  steals  a  kiss. 

Nor  dreams  he  that  misfortune's  cloud 

Is  wafting  o'er  the  glade, 
His  fancied  future  to  enshroud 

Beneath  its  somber  shade. 

Nor  dreams  she  that  the  Lethean  cup 

Will  mar  that  noble  boy 
Whose  ej-es  poetic  fire  lights  up, 

And  her  fond  hopes  destroy. 

Yet  such  the  fate  of  Scotia's  son 

With  talents  at  command  ; 
And  such  the  fate  of  every  one 

Where  rum  pollutes  the  land. 

Then,  sister,  if  some  amorous  swain 
To  }-ou  his  love  should  tell, 


CHARLES  WARREN  BREWSTER.  105 

From  giving  heed,  I  pray  refrain, 
Until  his  breath  you  smell. 

If  free  from  whisk}-,  rum,  or  gin, 

Why  then,  do  as  is  fitting ; 
If  otherwise,  pray  lose  no  time, 

But  quick  give  him  the  mitten. 


PRUDENCE. 

O  haste  not  to  the  gilded  shrine, 

Where  Bacchus  throws  his  favors  round  ! 
Let  nobler  views  thy  mind  incline 
To  turn  where  purer  pleasures  shine, 
And  truer  joys  are  found. 

O  seek  not  for  the  Siren's  bower, 

Where  champagne  fills  the  sparkling  bowl ! 
O  yield  not  to  her  witching  power, 
For  when  she  gives  her  richest  dower, 

She  chains  the  captive  soul. 

0  shun  the  demon's  noisy  tent, 

Where  Bacchus  waves  his  ivy  plume  ; 
There  woe  will  scowl  and  guilt  torment, — 
Though  friends  may  raise  a  vain  lament, — 
And  death  will  seal  thy  doom. 

Let  Temperance  be  thy  beacon  light 
Throughout  life's  checkered  way ; 
Life's  purest  joys  will  then  shine  bright, 
Its  sweetest  charms  will  greet  thy  sight, 
Bright  as  the  god  of  day. 


13retoster. 

Charles  W.  Brewster  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  September  13, 1802.  He  began  to 
learn  the  printing  business  at  the  age  of  sixteen  years,  and  after  acquiring  his  trade 
became  foreman  in  the  office  of  the  Portsmouth  Journal.  He  afterwards  became 
owner  of  the  Journal.  The  forty-three  volumes  of  that  paper,  commencing  in  1833 
and  ending  in  1868,  the  year  of  his  death,  are  at  once  the  record  of  his  industry,  the 
illustration  of  his  taste,  the  photograph  of  his  character,  his  real  biography.  He 
was  author  of  "Rambles  about  Portsmouth,"  in  two  volumes. 

HISTORY  OF  NEWS— BIRTH  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Lo  !  when  the  Eternal  planned  his  wise  design, 
Created  earth,  and  like  his  smile  benign, 
With  splendor,  beauty,  mildness,  decked  the  skies, — 
Waked  from  eternal  sleep,  with  wondering  eyes 
Man  viewed  the  scene,  and  gave  to  News  its  rise. 


100  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

New  of  himself,  to  Adam  all  was  new, — 

The  concave  canopy,  the  landscape's  view  ; 

The  murmuring  rivulet,  and  the  zephyr's  sound  ; 

The  songster's  carol,  and  the  deer's  light  bound  ; 

The  fruit  luxuriant,  where  no  brier  sprung ; 

No  wearj"  toil,  from  morn  to  setting  sun  ; 

But  every  gale  sweet  odors  wafted  on, 

His  joys  to  freshen.     Though  he  yet  was  lone, 

This  news  was  good  indeed  :  such  riches  given, 

Enough  almost  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

But  better  news  by  far  did  Adam  hear, 

When  woman's  voice  first  hailed  his  raptured  ear, — 

News  which,  in  later  da}*s,  full  well  we  know 

Lightens  life's  load  of  many  a  heav}r  woe. 

But  scarce  our  common  parent  rose  from  earth, 

Inhaled  the  breath  of  life,  and  Eve  had  birth, 

When  twined  the  monster  round  the  fatal  tree, — 

Dispelled  their  joy,  content  and  purity : 

Then  agonizing  Nature  brought  to  view 

Ills  which  in  Eden's  bowers  the}'  never  knew  ; 

Then,  at  that  hour  accursed,  that  hour  forlorn 

Bad  news — the  demon's  first  bequest — was  born. 

But,  though  ignobly  born,  to  seek  we're  prone 

The  bad  as  well  as  good,  and  make  our  own 

The  knowledge  of  the  griefs  and  woes  of  all 

On  whom  the  withering  frowns  of  fortune  fall. 

Bad  news  abundant  since  has  filled  our  world  : 

War's  bloody  garments  oft  have  been  unfurled, — 

The  kindly  parent  oft  been  called  to  yield 

His  earthly  hope  to  dye  the  ensanguined  field  ; 

Disease  oft  torn  our  dearest  hopes  away, 

Tjrrannic  princes  borne  despotic  sway  ; 

And  every  day  the  reckless  bearer's  been 

Of  evil  tidings  to  the  sons  of  men. 

But  change  this  picture  of  a  darkened  hue  ; 

Let  scenes  more  bright  now  open  to  the  view  : 

Though  things  may  change  with  ever-var}-ing  flow, 

They  do  not  bring  to  all  unmingled  woe. 

Do  millions  mourn  a  kingdom's  fallen  state  ? 

A  Caesar  hails  the  news  with  joy  elate. 

Does  drought  or  frost  destroy  the  planter's  hope, 

And  climes  more  genial  yield  a  fruitful  crop? 

Enhanced  by  contrast,  these  delight  the  more 

In  the  good  tidings  of  their  bounteous  store. 

Does  "the  insatiate  archer"  claim  a  prize? 

The  weeping  friend,  the  heir  with  tearless  eyes, 


CYNTHIA  L.  OEROULD.  107 

Show  joy  is  oft  the  associate  of  grief, 

And  pain  to  some,  to  others  is  relief. 

Full  many  ages,  centuries,  rolled  along, 

E'er  news  a  record  found,  the  press  a  tongue. 

From  sire  to  son,  tradition's  tale  was  told, 

Or  musty  parchment  spoke  the  daj's  of  old  ; 

No  minor  incidents  of  passing  time 

Ere  filled  a  page  or  occupied  a  rhyme  ; 

No  wars  of  politics  on  paper  fought, 

And  few  the  favored  ones  by  science  taught. 

Minerva  saw  the  dreary  waste  below, 

And  urged  the  gods  their  bounties  to  bestow, 

The  mind  of  man  to  chaste  refinement  bring, 

And  ope  to  all  the  pure  Pierian  spring. 

The  gods  convened  ;  but  still  Minerva  frowned  : 

Not  one  of  all  their  gifts  her  wishes  crowned, 

Till  Vulcan  thus, — and  simple  the  address, — 

"My  richest  gifts  behold, — the  TYPES  and  PRESS  !" 

The  goddess  smiled,  and  swiftly  Mercury  flies 

To  bear  to  earth  the  god's  most  favored  prize. 

Auspicious  hour !  hail,  morn  of  brighter  day  ! 

Ages  of  darkness,  close  !  to  light  give  wa}- ! 

The  morn  is  past,  the  splendid  sun  is  high ! 

The  mist  dispelled,  and  all  beneath  the  sk}* 

Feel  its  kind  influence  ;  and  its  cheering  ray 

Enlivens  all,  and  shines  in  brilliant  daj-. 

The  sacred  writ,  which  once  was  scarcely  known 

To  teachers,  now  (almost  a  dream  !)  is  thrown 

Into  a  book, — all,  in  one  little  hour, 

Alike  in  king's  and  lowest  menial's  power  ; 

And  bounteous  given — scarce  is  felt  the  task — 

In  every  work  which  use  or  fancy  ask. 

Thousands  of  years  a  dreary  night  had  been, 

Ere  Vulcan's  art  surpassed  the  tedious  pen, — 

Ere  down  from  heaven  this  precious  gift  was  brought, 

To  lend  the  speed  of  lightning  unto  thought. 


<£gntf)ta  ft.  Cerouttr. 


Mrs  Gerould,  of  Concord,  was  born  in  Sullivan,  May  2, 1804.  She  was  married 
to  Rev.  Moses  Gerould,  February  5, 1829.  Her  son,  Rev.  Samuel  L.  Gerould,  is  pas 
tor  of  the  Congregational  church  in  Goffstown. 


SUNSET. 

I  saw  the  glorious  pencillings 
Of  sunset  in  the  west ; 


108  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

What  gorgeous  hues,  superbly  bright 
That  seraph  veil  imprest ! 

The  richest  tints  were  glowing  there, 
Now  shaded,  then  full  deep, 

And  all  so  lovely  as  might  seem 
The  home  where  angels  keep. 

The  folded  curtains  opened  oft, 
And  cherubs  seemed  to  be 

Watching  what  things  were  done  on  earth 
Behind  its  drapery. 

And  did  their  holy  bosoms  swell 
With  joy  at  scenes  of  love? 

Did  earth,  so  beauteous,  seem  almost 
The  dawn  of  heaven  above? 

But  vanished  are  those  brilliant  clouds, — 

Yet  God  doth  surely  look 
And  note  each  deed  of  human-kind 

Within  his  doomsday-book. 


HYMN  FOR  THE  SEASON. 

Now, autumn  winds  are  blowing,  Just  like  the  hectic  flushes 

The  leaves  are  flut'ring  fast,       Ere  ceases  mortal  breath. 
With  ev'ry  color  glowing, 

As  sweeps  along  the  blast.     Tlae  Autumn  winds  are  sweeping, 

O'er  some  we  held  most  dear, 
The  tinges  of  the  rainbow          And  leaves  are  vigils  keeping, 

Are  painted  on  the  trees,  While  freezes  nature's  tear. 

And  leaves  in  thousand  mazes, 

Are  dancing  in  the  breeze.      No  autumn  winds  in  heaven, 

No  changes  there  can  come  ; 
But,  tho'  all  seems  so  brilliant      But,  'tis  eternal  spring-time, 

It  is  the  glow  of  death,  In  that  all  glorious  home. 


S?mttf). 

President  Smith  was  born  in  Amherst,  Sept  21, 1804.    In  his  youth  he  learned  the 
business  of  printing-  in  Windsor,  Vt.   In  1830  be  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College,  and 

from  Andover  Theological  Seminary  in  1834.  He  bewime  a  Presbyterian  clergy 
man  and  pastor  of  a  church  in  New  York  city.  He  left  that  position  in  1SK3,  and 
was  made  President  of  Dartmouth  College.  He  died  A  tig.  16,  1877.  The  University 
of  New  York  conferred  on  him  the  title  of  LL.  D.  iu  186-1.  He  published  books  and 
many  sermons,  and  was  a  man  of  great  ability.  During  his  presidency  Dartmouth 
College  made  great  progress,  and  he  was  beloved  by  every  one. 


EGBERT  DOODT  CAVERL7.  109 


TO  MOUNT  ASCUTNEY. 

Fair  mount,  in  sharpest  outline  showing, 
Athwart  the  clear,  blue,  wintry  sky, 
As  long  I  gaze  with  moistened  e}7e, 

How  weird  the  fancies  thickly  growing, 
What  scenes,  long  past,  are  flitting  by  ! 

Again,  with  childhood's  ken,  I'm  marking 
Thy  star-crowned  peak,  thy  evergreen, 
Thy  summer  garb,  thy  snowy  sheen  ; 

Again,  with  childhood's  ears,  I'm  harking 
To  winds  that  rise  thy  cliffs  atween. 

Again,  a  college  boy,  I'm  glancing 
Adown  the  vale  thou  watchest  well ; 
Old  hopes  anew  my  bosom  swell — 

Fair  castles  airy  re-advancing, 
/  Called  up  as  by  the  olden  spell. 

But  how,  like  mists  that  morning  brought  thee, 
Those  baseless  fabrics  vanished  soon  ; 
And  now,  at  manhood's  sober  noon, 

The  golden  lesson  thou  hast  taught  me, 
I  deem  a  truer,  richer  boon. 

Old  friends  are  in  the  valley  sleeping, 
That  by  me  stood  to  look  on  thee  ; 
And  youthful  years  how  swift  the}'  flee  : 

Her  solemn  ward  is  memory  keeping 
O'er  things  that  were,  but  may  not  be. 

But  thou,  symbolic,  still  uprising, 
Speakest  of  good  that  lives  for  aye, 
And  truth  of  an  eternal  day ; 

Of  good,  all  real  joy  comprising — 
A  glory  fading  not  away. 

So,  as  from  day  to  day  I  view  thee, 
I  count  earth's  shadows  lighter  still ; 
And  with  an  humbled,  chastened  will, 

To  God's  own  Mount  uplooking  through  thee, 
Immortal  hopes  my  bosom  thrill. 


Robert  Booirg  (tfaberlg. 

This  poet  was  born  in  Barrington,  now  Strafford,  July  19, 1806.  He  graduated  at 
Harvard  Law  School,  and  practised  law,  first,  six  years  In  Limerick,  Maine,  and 
then  in  Lowell,  Mass.,  where  he  now  remains.  His  poetry,  or  authorship,  may  be 
found  in  his  volumes  of  "Epics,  Lyrics,  and  Ballads" ;  in  his  several  orations ;  in  his 
"History  of  the  Indian  Wars  of  New  England;"  In  his  legends  and  dramas,  enti 
tled,  "Battles  of  the  Bush,"  and  in  other  works. 


110  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  OLD  GARRISON  HOUSE. 

Talk  with  a  ghost  at  my  native  Barrlngton,  N.  H.,  Saturday  eve,  October  iM),  1SCC. 

They're  sacred  now,  these  walls  of  wood  ! 

Ah  !  what  can  bear  comparison  ? 
From  age  to  age  they've  nobly  stood, 
They've  braved  the  conflict,  storm  and  flood 

Of  the  olden  time,  a  Garrison. 

Deserted  now,  within,  without, 

Alone,  aloof,  upon  a  hill, 
And  rumor  rife  hath  come  about, 
That  "in  those  port-holes  looking  out, 

The  midnight  spectre  lingers  still." 

And  now,  ye  ghosts,  if  ghost  there  be, 
Speak !  speak,  and  tell  us  of  the  strife, 

When  you  had  life  and  limbs  as  we, 

When  panting  pilgrims  had  to  flee 
The  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife. 

When  in  that  boundless  forest  wild, 

At  sound  of.  war-whoop  from  afar, — 
How  anxious,  up  and  down  ye  filed, 
And  hewed  the  logs,  and  upward  piled 
This  fortress  rude.     How  in  dread  war 

At  humble  huts,  far  scattered  wide, 

To  toil  ye  gave  the  weary  day, 
Then  driven  here,  at  eventide, 
The  child  and  mother,  side  by  side, 

Fast  winding  through  the  thorny  way. 

Unheeded  then  the  beasts  of  prey, 
The  prowl  of  wolf  no  terrors  brought, 

Nor  rancorous  reptiles  in  the  way, 

The  pilgrim  heart  knew  no  dismay, 
Save  what  the  knife  and  faggot  taught. 

Within  these  doors  then  bolted  fast, 

Say,  what  of  dreams?  Pray  speak  and  tell, 

How,  oft  amid  the  tempest  blast, 

Ye  heard  the  rattling  arrows  cast, 
The  mid-night  gun,  the  savage  yell. 

What  tearful  thought,  and  what  the  care, 
That  moved  the  matrons,  and  the  men 
To  hug  sweet  infants,  cradled  there, 


ROBERT  BOODT  CA VERLY.  \  \  \ 


To  guard  the  household,  and  to  share 
The  dangers  dread  impending  then ! 

And  what  when  tedious  years  had  passed, 
To  mourn  thy  many  kindred  slain ! 

Here  then,  at  peace,  ye  lived  at  last, 

Yet  did  the  sands  of  life  fall  fast, 
And  dust  to  dust  returned  again. 

How  then  the  spirit,  wafted  high, 

From  lifeless  nature  'neath  the  ground  ; 
Then  from  the  portals  of  the  sky, 
'Mid  clouds  of  night, — oh,  tell  us  why  ,] 
In  this  old  fort  ye  still  are  found ! 

Whence  are  thy  joys  eternal,  bright, 

As  if  ye  had  no  faltering  fear, 
No  sad  bereavement,  pain,  nor  blight, 
Nor  care  to  cramp  that  calm  delight, 

Foretold  of  faith  in  such  career? 

Ye've  seen  the  tribes  that  roamed  of  yore, 

From  Lovell's  Lake  to  the  falls  of  Berwick, 
Or  down  Cocheco's  woodland  shore, 
Where  Wat-che-no-it  dipped  his  oar, 
At  Dover  old,  or  Squanornegonic. 

Since  then  as  now  to  market  town, 

From  hills  afar,  yet  blue  and  bland, 
'Mid  summer's  heat  or  winter's  frown, 
How  settlers  teamed  their  treasures  down, 
Proud  in  the  products  of  the  land. 

Their  foot-prints  firm  are  on  the  plain 

'Mid  blighted  frost,  or  vigorous  health, 
Where  varied  life  of  joy  and  pain, 
Hath  learned  of  mother  ear^h  how  vain 
Is  pride  or  fame,  or  sordid  wealth  ! 

Then  tell  us  true,  if  well  ye  may, 

Since  tribe  and  pilgrim  hither  met ; 
How  generations  lived  their  day, 
How  each  in  turn  have  passed  away, 
But  where,  O  where,  untold  as  yet ! 

Of  all  that  host,  some  knowledge  lend, 

That  from  the  world  the  years  have  hurried, 
Say  what  of  Waldron,  what  his  end? — 


1  1  2  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

Old  "Mi-an-to-ni-mo"  his  friend, 

And  "Mossup  slain  }"ct  kindty  buried."* 

Say,  if  amid  that  spirit  sphere, 

Ye  have  full  knowledge  freely  given, 
Why  thus  withhold  from  mortals  here 
The  glories  grand,  forever  dear 

To  thee  and  thine,  of  death  and  heaven. 

The  spectre,  listening,  seemed  to  move, 

Half  hidden  still  within  the  wall, 
In  garb  of  light  and  looks  of  love, 
With  cadence  strange  as  from  above, 
Made  answer  thus,  the  one  for  all  : 


y  thus  should  men  make  search  to  know 

Their  final  fate  forever  hidden? 
Beyond  this  world  of  weal  and  woe, 
Your  vision  finite  ne'er  can  go  ; 

Enough  for  man  it  is  forbidden. 

"What  truth  in  Abraham  ye  trace, 

And  what  of  Israel's  tribes  are  told, 
What  Bunyan  wrote  of  the  pilgrim  race, 
Ye  well  ma}*  know  and  grow  in  grace, 

As  faithful  fathers  did  of  old. 

"Enough  !  and  why  should  we  disclose 

The  purpose  grand  ordained  above, 
Betray  the  trust  that  heaven  bestows, 
And  tempt  the  world  from  calm  repose, 

Its  tranquil  life  and  truthful  love. 

"Then  banish  care  !     Earth  can  but  see, 

Far  in  a  cloud,  a  guardian  hand  ; 
Nor  heed  the  storm,  alike  as  we, 
True  mariners  upon  the  sea, 

Ye'll  find  the  pilgrim's  promised  land." 

The  night-damp  dark  in  curtains  fell, 

Hushed  were  the  hills  and  valleys  green, 
I  bent  my  foot-step  down  the  dell, 
A  voice  there  answered,  "All  is  well,"  — 
And  nothing  more  was  said  or  seen. 

*  Mlantonlmo  was  a  chief  said  to  have  been  friendly,  tall  and  cunning.  lie  hunt 
ed  the  forests  in  this  region  of  country,  of  which  Major  Kicharrl  \\  aldron  was 
chief  among  the  whites.  Mossup,  a  brother  of  Miantonimo,  was  killed  by  the 
Mohawks  about  twenty  miles  "above  the  Piscataqua,"  and  was  buried  by  Major 
Waldron.  Major  Waldron  was  afterwards  cruelly  murdered  by  the  Indians  in  hie 
own  house  and  within  his  own  garrison,  at  Cocfieco,  now  Dover,  on  the  night  of 
June  27,  1689. 


SARAH  B.  BARNES.  113 

CLARA. 

Here  on  this  hill  she  wandered  in  her  childhood, 

Briefly  to  dance  sweet  summer  days  along ; 
While  oft,  in  flowery  vale  or  waving  wild  wood, 

She  blest  the  blue-bird  with  her  little  song. 
Now  bends  the  cypress,  weeping  limb  and  boughs  ; 

Sad  night  comes  down  to  lave  the  leaf  with  tears ; 
Soft  gentle  zephyrs  sigh  their  wonted  vows 

Unto  the  love  of  life's  departed  years. 

Ten  thousand  days'  bright  dawn  shall  beam  upon  it, 

Ten  thousand  nights'  sweet  stars  shall  come  with  care ; 
Ten  thousand  wild-birds'  lovely  warbling  on  it, 

Shall  bring  oblations  to  my  Clara  fair. 
Earth's  lengthened  years  are  little  in  His  sight, 

Who  rolls  the  spheres  in  majesty  above  ; 
Whose  sun  on  high  is  but  a  candle-light, 

To  lead  frail  mortals  to  a  throne  of  love. 


g>araf) 


Mrs.  Barnes  was  a  daughter  of  Hon.  Richard  H.  Ayer.  Her  native  town  was 
Hooksett.  She  resided  in  Manchester,  and  died  there  in  1872.  On  revisiting  her 
native  hills  she  composed  the  first  poem  here  given.  It  was  written  in  the  morning 
of  a  Fourth  of  July. 


OUR  MOUNTAIN  HOMES. 

The  glad,  green  earth,  beneath  our  feet, 

The  blue,  bright  heaven  is  greeting ; 
And  voiceless  praise  is  rising  up, 

Responsive  to  the  meeting ; 
Yet  wherefore  wakes  a  scene  like  this 

The  warm  heart's  wild  emotion  ? 
The  slave  ma}'  boast  a  home  as  bright, 

Beyond  the  pathless  ocean. 

Why  do  we  love  our  mountain  land  ? 

The  murmuring  of  her  waters  ? 
Italia's  clime  is  far  more  bland, 

More  beautiful  her  daughters  ! 
Why  pine  we  for  our  native  skies  ? 

Our  cloud-encircled  mountains  ? 
The  hills  of  Spain  as  proudly  rise, 

As  freshly  burst  her  fountains. 

Alas  for  mount  or  classic  stream, 
By  deathless  memories  haunted, 


1 1 4  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

For  there  oppression  un rebuked, 
His  iron  foot  hath  planted  ; 

The  curse  is  on  her  vine-clad  hills, 
'Tis  rife  upon  her  waters, 

But  doubly  deep  upon  her  sons, 
And  on  her  dark-e}Ted  daughters. 

Go  fling  a  fetter  o'er  the  mind, 

And  bid  the  heart  be  purer ; 
Unnerve  the  warrior's  lifted  arm 

And  bid  his  aim  be  surer. 
Go  bid  the  weary,  prisoned  bird 

Unfurl  her  powerless  pinion, 
But  ask  not  of  the  mind  to  brook 

The  despot's  dark  dominion. 

Wh}7  turn  we  to  our  mountain  homes 

With  more  than  filial  feeling? 
'Tis  here  that  Freedom's  altars  rise, 

And  Freedom's  sons  are  kneeling. 
Why  sigh  we  not  for  softer  climes  ? 

Why  cling  to  that  which  bore  us? 
'Tis  here  we  tread  on  Freedom's  soil, 

With  Freedom's  sunshine  o'er  us. 

This  is  her  home — this  is  her  home, 

The  dread  of  the  oppressor ; 
And  this  her  hallowed  birth-day  is, 

And  millions  rise  to  bless  her. 
'Tis  joy's  high  sabbath  ;  grateful  hearts 

Leap  gladly  in  their  fountains, 
And  bless  our  God  who  fixed  the  home 

Of  freedom  in  the  mountains. 


FAREWELL  TO  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Farewell  to  New  England,  the  land  of  my  birth, 
To  the  home  of  my  father,  the  hall,  and  the  hearth  ; 
To  the  beings  beloved,  who  have  gladdened  with  light 
Lite's  perilous  path — be  their  own  ever  bright. 

And  O,  when  the  exile  is  present  in  thought, 
Be  the  fond  recollection  with  happiness  fraught ; 
Remember,  remember,  but  not  to  deplore, 
Remember  in  smiles,  or  remember  no  more ! 

I  go  to  the  land  of  the  myrtle  and  vine, 

Where  beauty  is  wreathing  the  pillar  and  shrine  ; 


MOODY  CURRIER.  115 


Where  fairy-like  feet  are  repelling  the  sod, 
And  the  incense  of  Nature  is  breathing  to  God. 

My  grave  will  be  made  where  the  winter  is  not, 
And  the  sun  of  the  south  may  illumine  the  spot ; 
Will  gild  and  will  gladden  the  place  of  my  rest, 
Imparting  in  death  what  in  life  I  loved  best. 

That  smile  all  unclouded  when  others  are  flown, 
Bright,  beautiful  Nature  !  that  smile  is  thine  own  ; 
A  glory  above  all  the  glories  of  earth, 
The  glory  that  woke  when  the  morning  had  birth. 


(JTurrter. 

Moody  Currier  was  born  in  Boscawen,  April  22,  1806.  At  an  early  age  his  par 
ents  removed  to  Bow  where  his  early  years  were  passed  on  a  farm.  He  fitted  for 
college  at  Hopkinton  Academy,  and  graduated  at  Dartmouth  in  1834.  He  taught 
school  in  Concord,  and,  in  company  with  Asa  Fowler,  edited  the  New  Hampshire 
Literary  Gazette.  He  was  afterwards  principal  of  the  Hopkinton  Academy,  ami 
in  1836  principal  of  the  High  School  at  Lowell,  Mass.  In  1841  he  removed  to  Man. 
Chester,  where  he  has  since  continued  to  reside.  At  Hopkinton  and  Lowell  he 
studied  Law  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar,  and  became  a  law  partner  of  Geo.  W. 
Morrison  until  1843,  when  he  continued  the  practice  of  law  independently  until  J848. 
In  that  year  the  Amoskeag  Bank  was  organized,  and  he  became  cashier.  From 
then  till  the  present  time  he  has  been  connected  with  banking  institutions,  and  be 
side.3  has  held  many  offices  of  trust  and  responsibility  in  the  state.  A  voliimu  of 
his  poems  was  published  by  John  B.  Clarke  in  1881. 


ALL  THINGS  CHANGE. 

The  fairest  blossom  of  the  spring, 

Though  beautiful  and  gay, 
The  gaudy  insect's  gilded  wing, 

Must  quickly  pass  away. 

The  star  of  beauty  shines  on  high, 
Whilst  o'er  the  mountain's  height, 

It  climbs  the  dusky-bosomed  sky, 
Amid  the  lamps  of  night. 

That  star  of  beauty  must  decay, — 
Its  course  will  soon  be  run  ; 

The  heavens  and  earth  will  pass  away, 
When  once  their  work  is  done. 

There  is  a  realm  of  endless  dajr, 
Where  love  shall  never  end  ; 

There  is  a  life  without  decay, 
Where  kindred  souls  shall  blend. 

There  is  a  boundless  space  above ; 

To  loving  souls  'tis  given, 
To  live  a  life  of  endless  love, 

A  life  of  endless  heaven. 


1 1 6  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

OCTOBER. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  COPPEE. 

Before  that  the  heavens  in  winter  are  veiled, 
Before  that  the  streamlets  shall  close, 

Let  us  list  to  the  song  of  the  last  singing  bird  ; 
Let  us  look  oil  the  last  blooming  rose. 

October  still  gives  us  a  moment  to  gaze, 
Whilst  Nature's  in  glory  arrayed  ; 

Its  mantle  of  purple,  its  forests  of  gold, 
Are  beauties  that  wither  and  fade. 

Such  beautiful  charms  will  not  always  endure ; 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  tempests  that  lower, 
We  may  still  have  a  moment  to  linger  in  hope  : 

Let  us  seize  on  the  fugitive  hour. 

Oh,  then,  let  us  build  our  last  house  in  a  land 
Where  the  skies  are  all  bright  and  serene ; 

Where  never  the  cold  chills  of  winter  are  known, 
Where  the  fields  and  the  forests  are  green. 


ON  RECOVERING  FROM  SICKNESS. 

FROM   THE    FRENCH    OF    GRISSET. 

O  day  of  sweet  recovering  health  ! 

Bright  hours  of  joyful  mirth  ! 
It  is  a  rajr  of  heavenly  life  ; 

A  new  restoring  birth. 
What  pleasures  kindle  in  my  breast 
To  view  the  purple  curtained  west, 

As  twilight  fades  away. 
The  meanest  object  strikes  my  view ; 
To  me  the  universe  is  new, 

And  all  is  fair  and  gay. 

The  dewy,  verdant  groves  among,    f 

When  golden  morn  appears, 
The  wakeful  linnet's  matin  song 

With  transport  strikes  my  ears  ; 
A  thousand  sights  now  meet  my  eye, 
Which  oft  had  passed  unheeded  by, 

But  now  their  charms  I  see. 
Sweet  sights  to  vulgar  eyes  unseen, 
With  winning  look  and  gentle  mieu, 

Are  ever  new  to  me. 


EPHRAIM  PEABOD T.  117 

THE  INDIANS. 

By  the  banks  of  a  stream  on  the  mountain  side, 
Where  swift  o'er  the  rocks  the  bright  waters  glide, 
Is  a  hillock  of  earth  enveloped  in  shade, 
Where  the  red  warrior's  bones  in  their  blankets  are  laid. 

There  the  song  of  the  wood-bird  is  heard  in  the  spring ; 
There  the  young  foxes  bark  and  the  cat-birds  sing ; 
There  the  pine  and  the  beech  trees  their  dark  shadows  spread, 
While  their  roots  clasp  the  soil  that  envelopes  the  dead. 

But  their  children  have  gone  where  the  sun  sinks  to  rest, 
And  the  smoke  of  their  wigwams  is  seen  in  the  west ; 
But  their  strength  and  their  beauty  are  fading  away 
As  the  twilight  of  evening  at  the  close  of  the  day. 

Soon  the  last  of  their  race  will  be  lost  to  our  sight, 
And  their  sun  will  go  down  in  the  darkness  of  night ; 
But  the  white  man  will  dwell  where  their  cabins  have  stood, 
And  turn  up  the  soil  that  was  wet  with  their  blood. 

As  the  months  and  the  years  in  their  course  shall  roll  on, 
Our  children  will  ask  for  the  race  that  is  gone  ; 
But  their  mounds  and  their  graves  will  be  lost  to  our  sight, 
And  their  story  be  shrouded  in  fable  and  night. 

And  so  shall  the  tribes  of  the  earth  fade  away ; 
And  race  after  race  shall  rise  and  decay ; 
But  the  heavens  and  the  earth  shall  eternal  remain, 
And  God  in  His  works  forever  shall  reign. 


Rev.  Ephraim  Peabody  was  born  in  Wilton  in  1807,  and  educated  at  Bowdoin 
College,  graduating  in  1827.  He  became  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  and  in  1846  was 
settled  over  King's  Chapel,  Boston,  where  he  preached  acceptably  for  ten  years. 
He  died  in  1856. 


WEST'S   PICTURE  OF  THE  INFANT  SAMUEL. 

In  childhood's  spring — ah  !  blessed  Spring  ! 

(As  flowers  closed  up  at  even, 
Unfold  in  morning's  earliest  beam,) 

The  heart  unfolds  to  heaven. 
Ah  !  blessed  child  !  that  trustingly 

Adores,  and  loves,  and  fears, 
And  to  a  Father's  voice  replies, 

Speak  Lord  !  thy  servant  hears. 


118  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  youth  shall  come — ah  !  blessed  youth  ! 

If  still  the  pure  heart  glows, 
And  in  the  world  and  word  of  God, 

Its  maker's  language  knows  ; 
If  in  the  night  and  in  the  day, 

Midst  youthful  joys  or  fears, 
The  trusting  heart  can  answer  still, 

Speak,  Lord !  thy  servant  hears. 

When  age  shall  come — ah  !  blessed  age  ! 

If  in  its  lengthening  shade, 
When  life  grows  faint,  and  earthly  lights 

Recede,  and  sink,  and  fade  ; 
Ah  !  blessed  age  !  if  then  heaven's  light 

Dawns  on  the  closing  eye  ; 
And  faith  unto  the  call  of  God, 

Can  answer,  Here  am  I ! 


THE   SKATER'S  SONG. 

Away  !  away  ! — our  fires  stream  bright 

Along  the  frozen  river, 
And  their  arrowy  sparkles  of  brilliant  light 

On  the  forest  branches  quiver ; 
Away,  away,  for  the  stars  are  forth, 

And  on  the  pure  snows  of  the  valley, 
In  giddy  trance  the  moonbeams  dance ; 

Come  let  us  our  comrades  rally. 

Away,  away,  o'er  the  sheeted  ice, 

Away,  away,  we  go  ; 
On  our  steel-bound  feet  we  move  as  fleet 

As  deer  o'er  the  Lapland  snow. 
What  though  the  sharp  north  winds  are  out, 

The  skater  heeds  them  not ; 
Midst  the  laugh  and  shout  of  the  joyous  rout 

Gray  winter  is  forgot. 

'Tis  a  pleasant  sight,  the  jo3*ous  throng 

In  the  light  of  the  reddening  flame, 
While  with  many  a  wheel  on  the  ringing  steel 

They  rage  their  riotous  game  : 
And  though  the  night-air  cutteth  keen, 

And  the  white  moon  shineth  coldly, 
Their  homes  I  ween,  on  the  hills  have  been  ; 

They  should  breast  the  strong  blast  boldly. 


JAMES  BEEMAN.  119 


Let  others  choose  more  gentle  sports, 

By  the  side  of  the  winter's  hearth, 
Or  at  the  ball,  or  the  festival, 

Seek  for  their  share  of  mirth  ; 
But  as  for  me,  away,  away, 

Where  the  merry  skaters  be  ; 
Where  the  fresh  wind  blows,  and  the  smooth  ice  glows, 

There  is  the  place  for  me. 


James  itfreman. 


James  Breman  was  a  native  of  Rockingham  county,  born  in  1808.  At  the  age  of 
four  years  he  lost  his  parents  "by  death,  and  was  taken  by  a  kind-hearted  old  lady 
who  cared  for  him  till  his  fifteenth  year,  when  he  went  to  live  in  another  family, 
where  he  could  attend  school.  Subsequently  he  learned  the  carpenter's  trade,  and, 
after  a  few  years,  went  to  New  Orleans,  where,  soon  after  his  arrival,  he  fell  a  victim 
to  yellow  fever.  In  1844  an  account  of  his  life,  with  a  selection  from  his  poems,  was 
published  in  The  New  Hampshire  Magazine. 


STANZAS. 

Life's  joys  are  all  a  hollow  show, 
Like  fruits  that  gild  the  Dead  Sea  waste, 

And  tempting  to  the  pilgrim  grow, 
Yet  fall  in  ashes  on  the  taste. 

And  erring  man,  a  pilgrim  here, 

Still  onward,  hoping,  driven, 
Soon  finds  that  all  that's  loved  and  dear 

To  darkness  leads,  like  shades  of  even. 

And  false  the  dazzling,  flickering  flame 

That  shoots  from  Fame's  proud,  dizzy  height ; 

And  Mammon's  wand,  Ambition's  aim, 
But  dazzles  to  deceive  the  sight ; 

And  Friendship's  tear,  and  Beauty's  bloom, 

Deceptive  shine,  deceptive  flow ; 
And  Hope's  delusive  dreams  illume 

To  leave  a  deeper  shade  of  woe. 

And  Love,  false  Love,  the  syren  sings, 

And  timid  Virtue  lifts  her  eye, 
Yet  woos  her  but  to  deal  his  stings, 

Then  leaves  the  flower  to  fade  and  die. 

Oh  !  false  as  fair,  as  fleeting  too, 
And  changing  as  the  hues  of  even, 

Is  every  earthly  charm  we  view — 
"There's  nothing  true  but  Heaven." 


120  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Thomas  P.  Moses  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  February  17, 1808.    He  was  a  teacher 
of  music,    His  death  occurred  In  his  native  city,  November  22, 1881. 


TO  A  MINIATURE  OF  A  DEPARTED  FRIEND. 

Jewel  more  dear  than  pearls  or  gold, 
Bright  impress  of  the  loved  and  lost ! 

Thee  to  my  bosom  will  I  fold, 

While  on  life's  changeful  sea  I'm  tossed. 

Dear  image  of  a  soul  refined  ! 

There's  inspiration  in  thine  eyes  ; 
And  on  those  lips  seem  whispers  kind, 

Like  soothing  music  from  the  skies. 

I  gaze  upon  thy  features  fair, 

Till  fancy  paints  a  breathing  glow : 

Thy  smile  then  dissipates  my  care, 
And  frees  my  breast  from  every  woe. 

Thy  voice  seems  raised  in  seraph  song, 
And  sweetly  echoes  in  mine  ear : 

O  heart !  deem  not  m}'  fane}*  wrong  ; 
Still  would  I  dream  that  voice  I  hear. 


2Eumce  Hunball 


Eunice  Kimball  True  was  born  in  Plainfleld.  She  was  educated  at  Kimball  Un 
ion  Academy,  three  years,  ending  in  1828,  and  in  Aug.  1830  was  married  to  William 
H.  Daniels.  She  died  in  her  native  town,  June  16,  1841.  A  volume  of  her  poems 
was  published  in  1843. 


THE  FIRST  FLOWER. 

Ere  melts  the  dews  in  liquid  showers, 
Or  trees  their  vernal  robes  renew, 

'The  first-born  of  the  race  of  flowers 
Spreads  to  the  sky  its  answering  blue. 

Born  of  the  sun's  first  genial  kiss, 

That  woos  to  love  the  chaste,  cold  earth  ; 

Sweet  bud  of  hope,  a  nameless  bliss 
Thrills  the  warm  heart  to  hail  thy  birth. 

I  find  thee  in  the  leafless  wild, 

Beside  the  snow-wreath  blossoming, 

As  Winter  in  his  dotage  mild, 

Would  ape  the  brighter  robe  of  Spring. 

Or  the  soft  south,  in  wayward  mood, 
While  loitering  by  the  rocky  cleft, 


HUGH  MOOSE.  121 


Amid  its  dreary  solitude 

This  frail  and  sweet  memorial  left. 

No  warbler  of  the  glades  is  near, 
No  scented  shrub  nor  floweret  fair ; 

But  glittering  flake  and  ice-pearl  clear, 
Thy  chill  and  mute  companions  are. 

But  the  same  power  ordained  thy  birth, 
And  tinged  thy  soft,  cerulean  eye, 

That  poised  in  space  this  mighty  earth, 
And  hung  its  quenchless  lamps  on  high. 

And  in  each  cup,  each  tinted  grace, 
Each  leaf  thy  mossy  stem  uprears, 

The  moulding  of  that  hand  I  trace, 

That  fashioned  in  their  pride  the  spheres. 

Yet  art  thou  frail,  thy  transient  hour 
Of  bloom  and  beauty  will  be  o'er, 

Ere  spring  shall  dress  the  green-wood  bower, 
And  spread  her  bright  voluptuous  store. 

Even  now  thy  hues  are  in  their  wane. 

Thou  first-born  of  the  race  of  flowers ; 
Go,  thou  shalt  bloom  on  earth  again, 

Unlike  the  loved  and  lost  of  ours. 


Hugh  Moore,  a  self-educated  man,  and  a  printer,  was  born  In  Amherst,  Nov.  19, 
1808.  In  1828,  for  a  while,  he  published  Time's  Mirror,  a  weekly  newspaper,  in 
Concord.  The  next  year  he  began  the  publication  of  the  Democratic  Sj>y,  in  San- 
bornton,  which  was  removed  to  Gilford  and  discontinued  in  June  the  same  year. 
He  was  afterwards  editor  of  the  Burlington  Sentinel,  and  at  one  time  connected 
with  the  Custom  House  in  Boston.  He  died  in  Amherst,  February  13, 1837. 


SPRING  IS  COMING. 

Every  breeze  that  passes  o'er  us, 
Ever}'  stream  that  leaps  before  us, 
Every  tree  in  sj'lvan  brightness 
Bending  to  the  soft  winds'  lightness  ; 
Every  bird  and  insect  humming 
Whispers  sweetly,  "Spring  is  coming!" 

Rouse  thee,  boy !  the  sun  is  beaming 
Brightly  in  thy  chamber  now ; 

Rouse  thee,  boy  !  nor  slumber  dreaming 
Of  sweet  maiden's  eye  and  brow. 


1 22  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

See  !  o'er  Nature's  wide  dominions, 

Beauty  revels  as  a  bride  ; 
All  the  plumage  of  her  pinions 

In  the  rainbow's  hues  are  dyed  ! 

Gentle  maiden,  vainly  weeping 

O'er  some  loved  and  faithless  one  ; 
Rouse  thee  !  give  thy  tears  in  keeping 

To. the  glorious  morning  sun ! 
Roam  thou  where  the  flowers  are  springing, 

Where  the  whirling  stream  goes  by  ; 
Where  the  birds  are  sweetly  singing 

Underneath  a  blushing  sky  ! 

Rouse  thee,  hoary  man  of  sorrow  !    • 

Let  thy  grief  no  more  subdue  ; 
God  will  cheer  thee  on  the  morrow, 

With  a  prospect  ever  new. 
Though  you  now  weep  tears  of  sadness, 

Like  a  withered  flower  bedewed  ; 
Soon  thy  heart  will  smile  in  gladness 

With  the  holy,  just  and  good. 

Frosty  Winter,  cold  and  dreary, 

Totters  to  the  arms  of  Spring, 
Like  the  spirit,  sad  and  weary, 

Taking  an  immortal  wing. 
Cold  the  grave  to  every  bosom, 

As  the  Winter's  keenest  breath  ; 
Yet  the  buds  of  joy  will  blossom 

Even  in  the  vale  of  death. 


TO-MORROW. 

How  sweet  to  the  heart  is  the  thought  of  to-morrow, 
When  hope's  fairy  pictures  bright  colors  display  ! 

How  sweet  when  we  can  from  futurity  borrow 
A  balm  for  the  griefs  that  afliict  us  to-day  ! 

When  wearisome  sickness  has  taught  me  to  languish 
For  health,  and  the  comfort  it  brings  on  its  wing, 

Let  me  hope,  (oh  how  soon  it  would  lessen  my  anguish,) 
That  to-morrow  will  ease  and  serenity  bring. 

When  travelling  alone,  quite  forlorn,  unbefriended, 

Sweet  the  hope  that  to  morrow  m}'  wanderings  will  cease  ; 

That,  at  home,  then,  with  care  sympathetic  attended, 
I  shall  rest  unmolested,  and  slumber  in  peace. 


MARY  WILKLNS  SPAULD1NO.  123 

Or,  when  from  the  friends  of  my  heart  long  divided, 
The  fond  expectation,  with  joy  how  replete  ! 

That  from  far  distant  regions,  by  Providence  guided, 
To-morrow  will  see  us  most  happily  meet. 

When  six  days  of  labor,  each  other  succeeding, 
With  hurry  and  toil  have  my  spirits  opprest, 

What  pleasure  to  think  as  the  last  is  receding, 
To-morrow  will  be  a  Sabbath  of  rest. 

And  when  the  vain  shadows  of  time  are  retiring, 
When  life  is  fast  fleeting  and  death  is  in  sight, 

The  Christian,  believing,  excelling,  expiring, 
Beholds  a  to-morrow  of  endless  delight. 

But  the  infidel,  then,  surety  sees  no  to-morrow, 
Yet  he  knows  that  his  moments  are  hasting  away  : 

Poor  wretch  !  can  he  feel,  without  heart-rending  sorrow, 
That  his  prospect  of  joy  will  die  with  to-da}*  ? 


MIDNIGHT. 

Serene  the  sky,  the  beauteous  moon 
In  solitude  pursues  her  way  ; 

The  warbling  note,  the  plaintive  tune, 
Are  destined  only  for  the  day  : 

The  twinkling  stars  in  beauty  shine, 

Prerogative  of  things  divine  ! 

How  calm  the  scene — no  mystic  wreath 

Obscures  the  azure  sky ; 
The  passing  air  is  but  a  breath, 

That's  breathed  from  on  high, 
With  Nature's  various  charms  combined 
To  raise  to  rapturous  thoughts  the  mind. 

Oh  !  'tis  an  hour  when  man  discerns, 

And  ruminates  alone ; 
Perhaps,  ere  on  its  axle  turns 

The  earth,  our  lives  are  gone. 
And. then,  alas  !  all,  all  is  gloom, — 
Religion  visits  not  the  tomb  ! 


Mrs.  Spaulding  was  born  In  Harvard,  Mass.,  January  20,  ]809.  She  went  with 
her  parents,  Josiah  and  Elizabeth  Taylor  to  reside  in  Temple  in  1819,  and  subsequent 
ly  married  Jacob  S.  Spaulding  of  that  town.  He  was  a  graduate  of  Dartmouth,  and 
teaching  was  his  profession.  He  became  principal  of  Barre  academy  in  Vermont. 
Mrs.  Spaulding  died  Sept.  22, 1881,  soon  after  her  husband's  death. 


124  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

WHY  SHOULD  WE  CLING  TO  EARTH. 

Why  should  we  cling  to  earth 
When  all  its  ties  are  breaking? 

Why  should  we  trust  its  joj's 
When  every  heart  is  aching? 

What  can  avail  its  richest  wreath 

To  heal  the  bosom  rent  with  grief. 

Why  should  we  cling  to  earth  ? 

A  tangled  web  it's  weaving 
Around  our  eager  hearts, 

Still  smiling  and  deceiving  ; 
Each  rising  morn  with  magic  sway, 
Deludes  again  but  to  betray. 

Why  should  we  cling  to  earth  ? 

Friends  one  b}"  one  are  dying, 
Hope's  golden  pinions  crushed, 

And  heaven-eyed  pity  flying ; 
Peace  o'er  her  faded  olive  weeps, 
And  Justice  on  her  tribune  sleeps. 

Ah  !  cling  not  thou  to  earth  ! 

Love  on  its  breast  is  bleeding, 
Within  its  cherished  bowers 

The  worm  of  death  is  feeding, 
Turn,  mortal,  turn  th}-  weary  eye 
From  earth's  dark  shades  to  rest  on  high. 


iEtrmuntr  Uurfce. 

Edmund  Burke  was  born  in  Westminster,  Vermont,  January  23, 1809.  He  be 
came  a  lawyer  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  practised  in  Colebrook,  and  afterwards 
in  Whitefleld.  He  went  to  Clarcmont  in  1833,  and  was  editor  of  The  Argus.  In 
1834  he  removed  with  his  paper  to  Newport,  where  it  was  united  with  The  Specta 
tor.  He  was  member  of  Congress  in  1839,  and  Commissioner  of  Patents  in  1845. 
He  returned  to  Newport  in  1849,  and  resided  there  till  his  death,  Jan.  25, 1882. 


IN  IMITATION  OF  BURNS. 

Oh  !  if  my  love  were  yon  bright  flower, 

With  perfumes  rising  on  the  air, 
And  I  myself  a  tiny  bee, 

To  nestle  in  its  petals  fair, — 
Ah  !  there  in  rapturous  joys  I'd  live, 

And  revel  in  her  nectar'd  charms, 
And  there  a  sweeter. bliss  I'd  take 

Than  Cupid's  self  in  Psyche's  arms. 


STEPHEN  QREENLEAF  PULFINCH.  125 

Oh  !  were  my  love  yon  fleecy  cloud, 

That,  graceful,  floats  in  yonder  sky, 
And  I  nryself  a  sunbeam  bright, 

To  warm  and  glow  as  she  flies  by, — 
Ah  !  there,  from  dewy  morn  till  eve, 

I'd  wanton  in  each  mazy  fold, 
And  take  my  fill  of  sweet  delight, 

And  bathe  her  form  in  liquid  gold. 

Oh  !  were  my  love  yon  crystal  stream 

That  ripples  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
And  I  a  flower  upon  its  brink, 

To  bow  and  lave  m}'  weary  head, — 
Ah  !  there,  the  live-long  day  and  night, 

I'd  kiss  and  quaff  her  sparkling  wave, 
And  on  her  bosom  soft  I'd  sigh 

To  drown  me  in  so  sweet  a  grave. 


Rev.  Stephen  G.  Bulflnch,  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  was  born  in  Boston,  June  18, 
180'J.  He  graduated  at  Columbia  College,  D.  C.,  in  1826,  and  entered  the  Divinity 
School  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  the  same  year.  From  1830  to  1837  he  preached  at  Au 
gusta,  Georgia,  and  from  1845  to  1852  in  Nashua,  when  he  removed  to  Boston.  A 
volume  of  Ms  poems  was  published  in  1834. 


LINES  ON  VISITING  TALLULAH  FALLS,  GEORGIA. 

The  forest,  Lord,  is  thine  ; 
Th}T  quickening  voice  calls  forth  its  buds  to  light ; 

Its  thousand  leaflets  shine 
Bathed  in  thy  dews,  and  in  thy  sunbeams  bright. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  air, 
Where  breezes  murmur  through  the  pathless  shades  ; 

Thy  universal  care 
These  awful  deserts  as  a  spell  pervades. 

Father,  these  rocks  are  thine, 
Of  Thee  the  everlasting  monument, 

Since  at  thy  glance  divine, 
Earth  trembled  and  her  solid  hills  were  rent. 

Thine  is  the  flashing  wave, 
Poured  forth  by  thee  from  its  rude  mountain  urn, 

And  thine  you  secret  cave, 
Where  haply,  gems  of  orient  lustre  burn. 

I  hear  the  eagle  scream ; 
And  not  in  vain  his  cry  !  Amid  the  wild 


1 20  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thou  hearest !  Can  I  deem 
Thou  wilt  not  listen  to  thy  human  child  ? 
\ 

God  of  the  rock  and  flood, 
In  this  deep  solitude  I  feel  thee  nigh. 

Almighty,  wise  and  good, 
Turn  on  thy  suppliant  child  a  parent's  eye. 

Guide  through  life's  vale  of  fear 
My  placid  current,  from  defilement  free, 

Till,  seen  no  longer  here, 
It  finds  the  ocean  of  its  rest  in  thee. 


HYMN  FOR  SABBATH  MORNING  WORSHIP. 

Lord,  in  this  sacred  hour  Thy  temple  is  the  arch 

Within  thy  courts  we  bend,  Of  yon  unmeasured  sky ; 

And  bless  thy  love,  and  own  Thy  Sabbath,  the  stupendous 

thy  power,  march 

Our  Father  and  our  Friend.  Of  thine  eternity. 

But  thou  art  not  alone  Lord,  may  that  holier  da}- 

In  courts  by  mortals  trod  ;          Dawn  on  thy  servants'  sight ; 

Nor  only  is  the  day  thine  own    And  purer  worship  ma}'  we  pay 
When  man  draws  near  to  God.     In  heaven's  unclouded  light. 


Mar*. 

Rev.  Milton  Ward  was  probably  born  in  Hanover  in  1809.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1825,  and  in  1829,  at  the  Medical  Department  of  the  same  college. 
He  became  a  Congregational  minister,  and  in  1834  was  ordained  as  pastor  of  the 
church  in  Hillsborough.  He  died  in  1874.  In  1825  a  volume  of  his  poems  wsi.s 
published  under  the  title  of  "Poetic  Effusions."  '-The  Lyre"  is  auid  to  have  boon 
written  when  the  author  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 


THE  LYRE. 

There  was  a  lyre,  'tis  said,  that  hung 

High  waving  in  the  summer  air  ; 
An  angel  hand  its  chords  had  strung, 

And  left  to  breathe  its  music  there. 
Each  wandering  breeze,  that  o'er  it  flew, 

Awoke  a  wilder,  sweeter  strain 
Than  ever  shell  of  mermaid  blew 

In  choral  grottos  of  the  main. 
When,  springing  from  the  rose's  bell, 

Where  all  night  he  had  sweetlj'  slept, 
The  zephyr  left  the  flowery  dell 


MILTON  WARD.  127 


Bright  with  the  tears  that  morning  wept, 
He  rose,  and  o'er  the  trembling  lyre 

Waved  lightly  his  soft,  azure  wing  ; 
What  touch  such  music  ^could  inspire  ! 

What  harp  such  lays  of  joy  could  ring ! 
The  murmurs  of  the  shaded  rills, 

The  birds,  that  sweetly  warbled  by, 
And  the  soft  echo  from  the  hills 

Were  heard  not  where  that  heart  was  nigh. 
When  the  last  light  of  fading  day, 

Along  the  bosom  of  the  west, 
In  colors  softly  mingled,  lay, 

While  night  had  darken'd  all  the  rest, 
Then,  softer  than  that  fading  light, 

And  sweeter  than  the  lay  that  rung 
Wild  through  the  silence  of  the  night, 

As  solemn  Philomela  sung, 
That  harp  its  plaintive  murmurs  sighed 

Along  the  dewy  breeze  of  even  ; 
So  clear  and  soft  they  swelled  and  died 

They  seemed  the  echoed  songs  of  heaven. 
Sometimes,  when  all  the  air  was  still, 

And  not  the  poplar's  foliage  trembled, 
That  harp  was  nightly  heard  to  trill 

With  tones  no  earthly  tones  resembled. 
And  then,  upon  the  moon's  pale  beams, 

Unearthly  forms  were  seen  to  stray, 
Whose  starry  pinions'  trembling  gleams 

Would  oft  around  the  wild  harp  play. 
But  soon  the  bloom  of  summer  fled, 

In  earth  and  air  it  shone  no  more : 
Each  flower  and  leaf  fell  pale  and  dead, 

While  skies  their  wintry  sternness  wore. 
One  day,  loud  blew  the  northern  blast, — 

The  tempest's  fury  raged  along ; 
Oh  !  for  some  angel,  as  they  passed, 

To  shield  the  harp  of  heavenly  song ! 
It  shrieked — how  could  it  bear  the  touch, 

The  cold  rude  touch  of  such  a  storm, 
When  e'en  the  zephyr  seemed  too  much 

Sometimes,  though  always  light  and  warm  ! 
It  loudly  shrieked — but  ah  !  in  vain  ; 

The  savage  wind  more  fircely  blew ; 
Once  more — it  never  shrieked  again, 

For  every  chord  was  torn  in  two. 
It  never  thrilled  with  anguish  more, 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Though  beaten  by  the  wildest  blast ; 
The  pang,  that  thus  its  bosom  tore, 

Was  dreadful — but  it  was  the  last. 
And  though  the  smiles  of  summer  played 

Gently  upon  its  shattered  form, 
And  the  light  zeplm's  o'er  it  strayed, 

That  lyre  the}'  could  not  wake  nor  warm. 


John  H.  Warland,  was  a  native  of  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and  a  graduate  of  Harvard 
College.  He  studied  theology  but  never  was  ordained  as  a  preacher.  He  remov 
ed  to  Claremont  and  was  editor  of  the  National  Eagle  for  seven  years  from  its  com 
mencement.  Leaving  Claremont  he  went  to  Manchester  and  was  editor  of  the 
American.  Subsequently  he  removed  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  and  was  editor  of  the  Jour, 
nal.  From  that  city  he  removed  to  Boston  and  became  connected  with  the  Atlas. 
He  was  insane  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life,  and  died  at  an  asylum  in  Tauntou, 
Mass.  He  published  a  volume  entitled  "The  Plume,"  containing  prose  and  poetry. 
Mr.  Warland  was  a  man  of  keen  sensibilities,  and  an  able  writer.  The  loss  of  his 
young  and  beloved  wife,  while  living  in  Claremont,  seemed  to  cast  a  shade  over  his 
after  life.  He  was  a  good  poet,  as  will  be  seen  by  the  poems  here  presented. 


SUMMER. 

Welcome,  sweet  summer,  to  the  earth  once  more, 
To  the  bright  rivers  and  the  woodland  bowers  ; 

No  bride  such  gay  and  brilliant  robes  e'er  wore, 
When  love  and  beauty  graced  her  bridal  hours, 

As  thou,  while  lawn  and  hill  thou  trippest  o'er, 
Braiding  thy  chaplet  of  young  leaves  and  flowers. 

Earth  owns  thy  beauty  as  with  step  of  pride 

Thou  comest  now,  so  like  a  blooming  bride. 

Sweet  daises  line  the  margin  of  the  rills, 

The  mountain  brooks  and  the  broad  inland  streams  ; 
Violets  bloom  upon  the  verdant  hills 

With  thousands  tints,  in  summer's  glorious  beams  ; 
The  blue-bird  at  thy  coming  early  trills 

His  song,  and  goldfinch  shows  the  brilliant  gleams 
Of  his  gay  plumage,  as  he  sends  his  note 
Warbled  to  thee  in  sweetness  from  his  throat. 

The  trees  for  thee  put  on  their  dress  of  green, 

Their  silken  tresses  and  their  coronals 
Of  blossoms,  and  new  buds,  when  thou  art  seen 

Robed  like  a  fairy  in  her  princely  halls ; 
The  wild  flower  springeth  where  thy  step  hath  been, 

And  on  thy  path  a  wreath  of  roses  falls, 
Strewn  there  to  give  thee  all  their  sweet  perfume, 
As  thou  didst  pass  in  thy  young  virgin  bloom. 


JOHN  H.   WAELAND.  129 

And  tbou  art  welcome,  were  it  but  to  hear 

New  England's  pride,  the  robin,  sing  his  song ; 

His  old  familiar  perch,  the  garden  near, 

He  seeks  at  dawn,  and  trills  his  music  long ; 

The  old  man  wakes,  and  knows  his  notes,  so  dear 
And  sweet  his  old  remembrances  among  ; 

p]re  yet  his  window  lets  in  morning's  beams, 

How  oft  that  song  hath  broke  upon  his  dreams  ! 

Thou  sweet,  midsummer  breeze  !  how  welcome  thou 
To  earth  and  all  her  living  things  once  more ; 

Viewless,  yet  felt,  there's  healing  with  thee  now 
As  the  sick  couch  at  eve  thou  breathest  o'er ; 

And  thou  art  welcome  to  the  healthy  brow, 
Delightful  voyager  !  welcome  to  the  shore — 

Thy  summer  bark  skims  lightly  o'er  the  sea, 

With  frieght  more  precious  than  rich  argosy. 

The  student  feels  thee  in  his  smoky  cell, 

As  o'er  the  page  he  bends,  so  pale  and  weak, 

His  eye  chained  down  as  if  beneath  a  spell ; 
He  feels  thee  gently  coming  to  the  cheek, 

Fresh  bloom  to  bring,  and  weariness  dispel, 
Kissing  his  brow,  and  wooing  him  to  seek 

The  forest  path,  the  cove  and  breezy  rivers, 

Ere  yet  the  sunbeam  on  the  mountain  quivers. 

At  morn  the  grey  old  man  doth  leave  his  home, 
And  lean  upon  his  staff  to  feel  thee  blow — 

He  bares  his  forehead  now,  as  thou  dost  come 
And  part  the  hoary  locks  from  off  his  brow — 

How  sweet  to  him  !  he  blesses  thee  as  some 
Kind,  watching  spirit,  sent  to  spread  the  glow 

Of  youth's  bright  tint  his  cheeks  and  temples  o'er, 

And  kindle  youth's  pure  feelings  up  once  more. 

The  virgin  seeks  her  summer  bower  for  thee 
To  sport  thy  fingers  with  her  tresses  fair ; 

She  feels  thy  cool  breath  to  her  cheeks  come  free, 
And  in  sweet  dalliance  wave  her  flowing  hair ; 

Thou  stealest  sweet  perfume  from  the  blooming  tree, 
Kissest  her  cheek  and  spreadest  crimson  there. 

Delicious  breeze  !  she  hails  thee  to  her  bower, 

And  woos  thy  coming  in  soft  evening  hour. 

But  thou,  with  all  thy  glorious  scenes,  wilt  fall 
Into  the  tornb  of  Autumn,  and  wilt  die. 


130  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

O'er  thee,  as  shrouded  in  thy  dreary  pall 
The  cold  and  piercing  winter  wind  will  sigh, 

Each  year  shalt  thou  come  forth  again,  till  al1 
Earth's  seasons  die — so  to  eternit}-, 

Triumphant  from  the  chambers  of  the  tomb, 

Man  will  rise  radiant  with  celestial  bloom. 


THE  DUMB   CHILD. 

She  is  my  onty  girl, 

I  asked  for  her  as  some  most  precious  thing ; 
For  all  unfinished  was  Love's  jewelled  ring, 

Till  set  with  this  soft  pearl ! 

The  shadow  that  time  brought  forth  I  could  not  see  ; 
How  pure,  how  perfect  seemed  the  gift  to  me  ! 

Oh  !  many  a  soft  old  tune 
I  used  to  sing  unto  that  deafened  ear, 
And  suffered  not  the  slightest  footstep  near, 

Lest  she  might  wake  too  soon  ; 
And  hushed  her  brothers'  laughter  while  she  lay. 
Ah  !  needless  care  !  I  might  have  let  them  plaj'. 

'Twas  long  ere  I  believed 
That  this  one  daughter  might  not  speak  to  me  ; 
Waited  and  watched — God  knows  how  patiently  ! 

How  willingly  deceived. 

Vain  Love  was  long  the  untiring  nurse  of  Faith, 
And  tended  Hope  until  it  starved  to  death. 

Oh  !  if  she  could  but  hear 

For  one  short  hour,  till  I  her  tongue  might  teach 
To  call  me  mother,  in  the  broken  speech 

That  thrills  the  mother's  ear  ! 
Alas !  those  sealed  lips  never  may  be  stirred 
To  the  deep  music  of  that  holy  word  ! 

My  heart  it  sorely  tries, 
To  see  her  kneel  with  such  a  reverent  air 
Beside  her  brothers  at  their  evening  prayer ; 

Or  lift  those  earnest  eyes 

To  watch  our  lips  as  though  our  words  she  knew, 
Then  move  her  own,  as  she  was  speaking,  too. 

I've  watched  her  looking  up 
To  the  bright  wonder  of  a  sunset  sky, 
With  such  a  depth  of  meaning  in  her  eye, 


JOHN  H.   WAR  LAND.  131 

That  1  could  almost  hope 

The  struggling  soul  would  burst  its  binding  cords, 
And  the  long  pent  up  thoughts  flow  forth  in  words. 

The  song  of  bird  and  bee, 

The  chorus  of  the  breezes,  streams  and  groves, 
All  the  grand  music  to  which  Nature  moves, 

Are  wasted  melody 

To  her  ;  the  world  of  sound  a  tuneless  void  ; 
While  even  silence  has  its  charms  destroyed. 

Her  face  is  very  fair ; 
Her  blue  eyes  beautiful ;  of  finest  mould 
The  soft  white  brow,  o'er  which,  in  waves  of  gold 

Ripples  her  shining  hair. 
Alas  !  this  lovely  temple  closed  must  be, 
For  He  who  made  it  keeps  the  master  key. 

Wills  He  the  mind  within 

Should  from  earth's  Babel  clamor  be  kept  free, 
PL'en  that  His  still,  small  voice  and  step  might  be 

Heard,  at  its  inner  shrine, 

Through  that  deep  hush  of  soul,  with  clearer  thrill? 
Then  should  I  grieve?   O,  murmuring  heart,  be  still ! 

She  seems  to  have  a  sense 
Of  quiet  gladness,  and  in  noiseless  play  ; 
She  hath  a  pleasant  smile,  a  gentle  way, 

Whose  voiceless  eloquence 
Touches  all  hearts,  though  I  had  once  the  fear 
That  even  her  father  would  not  care  for  her. 

Thank  God  it  is  not  so  ! 
And  when  his  sons  are  playing  merrily, 
She  comes  and  leans  her  head  upon  his  knee. 

O,  at  such  times,  I  know, 
By  his  full  eye,  and  tones  subdued  and  mild, 
How  his  heart  yearns  over  his  silent  child. 

Not  of  all  gifts  bereft, 

Even  now.     How  could  I  say  she  did  not  speak  ? 
What  real  language  lights  her  eye  and  cheek, 

And  renders  thanks  to  Him  who  left 
Unto  her  soul  yet  open  avenues 
For  jo3T  to  enter,  and  for  love  to  use  ! 

And  God  in  love  doth  give 
To  her  defect  a  beauty  of  its  own  ; 
And  we  a  deeper  tenderness  have  known 


132  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Through  that  for  which  we  grieve. 
Yet  shall  the  seal  be  melted  from  her  ear ; 
Yea,  and  my  voice  shall  fill  it — but  not  here. 

When  that  new  sense  is  given 
What  rapture  will  its  first  experience  be, 
That  never  woke  to  meaner  melody 

Than  the  rich  songs  of  heaven — 
To  hear  the  full-toned  anthem  swelling  round, 
While  angels  touch  the  ecstacies  of  sound  ! 


LINES 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    CHARLES    J.    FOX. 

The  scholar's  brilliant  light  is  dim, 

And  on  his  brow  Death's  signet  set : 
Oh,  many  an  63-0  that  welcomed  him, 

With  sorrow's  burning  tears  is  wet ; 
His  was  a  noble  heart  and  true — 

His  was  the  strong  and  gifted  mind  ; 
And  Fame  and  Love  around  him  threw 

Their  wreaths,  with  choicest  flowers  entwined. 

His  mind  lay  like  a  gem  within 

A  fretted  and  a  slender  frame, 
Which  oft  it  buo3"ed  to  health  again, 

Unknowing  whence  the  healing  came. 
The  jewel  through  the  casket  frail, 

Shone  with  a  clear  and  perfect  ray. 
As  if  its  light  would  never  pale 

Before  e'en  Death's  triumphant  sway. 

He  wore  away — no  lovelier  clime 

With  fairy  scenes  and  gentle  breeze — 
The  grandeur  of  the  ocean  chime, 

Italia's  skies  nor  India's  seas — 
Not  these  could  brace  his  wasting  frame, 

Nor  home  with  all  its  memories  dear, 
But  calmly,  when  the  summons  came, 

His  soul  soared  to  a  brighter  sphere. 

His  was  the  scholar's  gentleness, 

''The  faculty  and  power  divine," 
Which  leave  on  all  their  strong  impress, 

And  glow  in  every  thought  and  line. 


LEWIS  C.  BROWNE.  133 


Truth  found  in  him  a  champion, 

Clad  in  her  armor  burnished  bright — 

And  error's  clouds  sank  one  by  one, 
Before  his  clear,  serener  light. 

His  was  the  Christian's  holiness, 

Whose  beautiful  and  placid  ray 
Beamed  on  his  soul,  its  flight  to  bless 

Along  its  bright  celestial  way — 
Undimmed  in  life's  long,  last  eclipse, 

When  love  its  midnight  vigils  kept — 
When  pressed  to  his  her  pale,  pale  lips, 

And  gentle  eyes  above  him  wept. 

Tread  lightly,  where  the  scholar  sleeps, 

Within  his  cold  and  narrow  bed, 
For  one  her  bridal  vigils  keeps 

Above  the  wept  and  sainted  dead, 
Tread  lightly  b}T  his  rural  tomb, 

And  o'er  it  plant  the  gentle  flowers, 
Sweet  s^ymbols  of  his  spirit's  bloom 

In  a  far  brighter  land  than  ours. 


L  Hfrotone. 

Rev.  Lewis  C.  Browne  was  born  in  Montreal,  Canada,  March  8,  1810.  His  par 
ents  were  natives  of  Massachusetts.  They  began  their  married  life  in  Vermont. 
Subsequently  they  sojourned  for  several  years  in  Montreal  They  returned  to 
Vermont  when  Lewis  was  but  six  months  old.  His  boyhood  was  passed  amid  the 
line  scenery  of  Bennington.  While  he  was  but  :i  child  his  father  became  insane, 
and  the  family  of  seven  children,  of  which  he  was  the  sixth,  was  broken  up  and 
the  children  scattered,  the  two  younger  ones  only  remaining  with  the  mother,  who 
was  a  woman  of  good  education  and  of  fine  literary  tastes  and  culture.  At  the 
age  of  fourteen  he  went  to  Utica,  K.  Y.,  to  live  with  his  eldest  brother.  In  1826  he 
returned  to  Bennington  and  began  "teaching  school  and  boarding  around."  This 
lie  made  his  principal  occupation  till  he  began  to  study  for  the  ministry  in  1833. 
Ilis-ministry  extended  through  a  period  of  forty  years,  more  than  ten  of  which  were 
spent  in  Nashua,  between  1839  and  1853.  Hei'e  lie  built  up  a  large  society  from  very 
humble  beginnings;  devoting  himself,  in  the  meantime,  largely  to 'the  interests 
of  common  schools,  in  the  positions  of  Superintending  Committee,  County  School 
Commissioner,  and  member  of  the  State  Board  of  Education.  He  was  also  one  of 
the  original  members  of  the  boards  of  Trustees  of  Tuft's  College  and  St.  Lawrence 
University.  About  1870  he  found  his  sight  failing  from  cataract.  Becoming  en 
tirely  blind  in  1875  he  discontinued  regular  ministerial  labors,  though  occasionally 
preaching  extempore,  memorizing  hymns  and  Scripture  readings.  He  subsequent 
ly  regained  a  degree  of  sight  by  an  operation  on  one  eye.  Of  his  poems  here  given, 
"Briers  and  Berries,"  which  appeared  in  1835,  has  been  extensively  copied,  and 
has  been  incorrectly  attributed  to  "An  English  divine,  residing  in  America."  Mr. 
Browne  resides  at  Houeoye  Falls,  N.  Y. 


BRIERS  AND  BERRIES. 

'T  was  on  a  cloudy,  gloom}"  day 
About  the  middle  of  September, 
If  rightly  I  the  date  remember — 

For  certainly  I  cannot  say, 


134  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

\ 

When  I,  astride  my  pacing  gray, 

Was  plodding  on  my  weary  way 

To  spend  a  night  and  preach  the  word 

To  people  who  had  never  heard 
The  Gospel,  or  to  say  the  least, 
Had  never  viewed  it  as  "a  feast 
Of  fat  things  full  of  marrow." 

In  sadness  as  I  rode  along 

And  crossed  the  silver  Unadilla, 
The  robin  sung  his  plaintive  song, 

And  faintly  drooped  the  fading  lily. 
The  smoky  sky,  no  longer  blue, 

Assumed  a  dim  and  dusk}'  gray, 
And  autumn  o'er  my  feelings  threw 

The  coloring  of  its  own  decay, 
And  I  almost  forgot  the  words 
Of  Him  who  preached  of  flowers  and  birds — 

The  lily  and  the  sparrow. 

I  had  been  pondering  o'er  and  o'er 

The  trials  of  the  travelling  preacher ; 
The  heavy  burdens  that  he  bore — 

In  carrying  truth  to  every  creature  ; 
His  wearied  brain  and  frame  worn  down 

Emaciated  and  dyspeptic ; 
The  hardened  bigot's  iron  frown  ; 

The  jest  of  scoffer  and  of  skeptic  ; 
One  mocking  revelation's  page, 

Another  ridiculing  reason ; 
And  the  rude  storms  he  must  engage 

And  all  inclemencies  of  season. 

In  this  despondent,  sombre  mood 

I  rode  perhaps  a  mile  or  two, 
When  lo  !  beside  the  way  there  stood 

A  little  girl  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Light  hair,  and  lips  as  red  as  cherries  ; 

And  through  the  briers  with  much  ado 
She  wrought  her  way  to  pick  the  berries, 

Quoth  I,  "My  little  girl,  it  seems 
To  me  you  buy  your  berries  dear, 

For  down  your  hand  are  red  blood  streams, 
And  down  your  cheek  there  rolls  a  tear," 

"O  3~es,"  said  she,  "but  then  you  know 

There  will  be  briers  where  berries  grow." 


LEWIS  C.  BROWNE.  135 

These  words  came  home  with  keen  rebuke 

To  me,  disturbed  by  petty  jostles, 
And  brought  to  mind  the  things  that  Luke 

Has  written  of  the  old  apostles 

Who  faced  the  world  without  a  fear, 

And  counted  even  life  not  dear. 
And  since,  from  that  good  hour  to  this, 

In  sunny,  dark,  or  storm}1-  weather, 
I  still  reflect  that  woe  and  bliss 

In  life's  deep  cup  are  found  together. 
Come  smiling  friend  or  frowning  foe  ; 
"There  will  be  briers  where  berries  grow." 


A  SONG  OF  AGE. 

When  the  sun  no  longer  shines 

Through  the  distant  mountain  pines, 
And  the  evening's  cooling  shadows  gather  darkly  o'er  the  land, 

For  the  day  we  do  not  weep, 

As  the  darkness  bringeth  sleep, 
And  itg  healing  rest  is  welcome  to  the  weary  brain  and  hand. 

So  when  life's  short  day  is  o'er, 

And  we  toil  and  ache  no  more, 
But  from  wasting  care  and  sorrow  find  a  respite  and  release, 

Why  should  mortals  make  lament 

That  the  sands  of  time  are  spent? 
For  surely  the  decline  of  life  should  be  a  time  of  peace. 

When  the  autumn  of  the  }"ear 

Shows  a  landscape  dull  and  drear, 
Leaves  thickty  clothe  the  forest  ground  and  birds  no  longer  sing, 

The  worn  earth  is  not  unblest, 

For  tired  nature  needeth  rest, 
And,  folded  in  her  snowy  robe,  she  slumbereth  till  spring. 

When  the  bloom  of  life  is  lost, 

And  we  feel  the  later  frost, 
And  like  the  ripened  foliage  we  must  wither,  fade  and  fall, 

Let  the  Christian  murmur  not, 

But  accept  the  common  lot, 
And  bow  resigned  and  loyal  to  the  law  that  ruleth  all. 

Death  and  night  shall  pass  away, 

Leaving  life  and  cloudless  day, 
And  through  a  purer  atmosphere  shall  beam  celestial  light. 

On  that  verdant,  sunny  shore 

Shall  be  music  evermore, 
No  winter  in  that  vernal  clime,  and  no  autumnal  blight. 


136  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

TEACHING  SCHOOL  AND  BOARDING  AROUND. 

My  thoughts  go  back'  to  the  rosy  prime, 

And  memor}'  paints  anew  the  scenes 
Afar  in  the  bleak  New  England  clime, 

Though  half  a  century  intervenes, 
On  a  highway  corner  the  school  house  stands 

Under  an  elm  tree  broad  and  tall, 
And  rollicking  children  in  laughing  bands 

Come  at  the  master's  warning  call. 
They  pile  together  their  sleds  and  skates, 

Hang  hats  and  hoods  in  the  entiy-wa}', 
And  gathering  pencils,  books  and  slates, 

Diligent  study  succeeds  to  play. 
A  mountain  steam  turns  a  gray  stone  mill, 

That  runs  with  a  low  and  slumberous  sound  ; 
And  there  in  fancy  I  wander  still, 

Teaching  school  and  boarding  around. 

Near  by  is  a  farmhouse  large  and  square, 

With  doors  and  casements  of  faded  red, 
A  stoop  that  shades  from  the  summer  glare, 

And  wood  well  piled  in  the  sheltering  shed, 
There's  an  ancient  barn  with  swallow-holes 

High  in  the  gable,  three  in  a  line  ; 
The  lithe  bay  colt  in  the  deep  snow  rolls, 

From  racks  of  hay  feed  the  docile  kine. 
Closely  are  huddled  the  timorous  sheep 

As  the  flails  resound  on  the  threshing  floor, 
The  pilfering  poultiy  stealthily  creep 

And  silently  watch  at  the  open  door 
For  each  stray  kernel  of  shelling  grain. 

Full  of  content  was  the  lot  I  found 
Among  the  farm-folk,  honest  and  plain, 

Teaching  school  and  boarding  around. 

The  farmer's  table  has  lavish  supplies  : 

Chicken  and  sausage  of  flavor  rare, 
Crullers  and  cookies  and  puddings  and  pies 

Are  items  rich  in  the  bill  of  fare. 
The  teacher  sleeps  in  a  wide,  soft  bed 

Kept  clean  for  guests  in  the  great  spare  room, 
"With  ga}f  chintz  curtains  over  his  head, 

And  blankets  wove  in  the  old  hand  loom. 
The  thrifty  wife,  ere  the  break  of  dajr, 

Springs  from  her  rest  though  the  morn  is  cool, 


LEWIS  C.  BROWNE.  137 

And  breakfast  ended  we  haste  away 

O'er  the  shining  crust  to  the  district  school. 

Here  morals  are  pure  and  manners  sincere, 
And  men  in  church  and  in  state  renowned 

Have  made  the  first  step  in  a  grand  career 
Teaching  school  and  boarding  around. 

In  the  moonlight  evening  long  and  still 

The  youth  assemble  from  many  a  farm, 
Though  the  air  without  is  crisp  and  chill, 

There's  a  bright  wood  fire  and  a  welcome  warm, 
Walnuts  and  apples  are  passed  around, 

The  hands  of  the  clock  get  a  backward  turn, 
Innocent  frolic  and  mirth  abound 

Till  low  in  their  sockets  the  candles  burn. 
Young  men  and  maidens  of  artless  wa}-s 

Are  drawn  together  in  groups  like  this  ; 
Their  hands  are  joined  in  the  rural  plaj-s 

And  sweet  lips  meet  in  the  guileless  kiss. 
Twin  hearts  are  linked  with  a  golden  chain, 

And  love  with  marriage  is  earl}'  crowned. 
How  oft  in  dreams  I  am  there  again, 

Teaching  school  and  boarding  around. 


THREESCORE  AND  TEN. 

"Our  age  to  seventy  j'ears  is  set :" 
'Twas  so  the  sacred  lyrist  sung, 

I've  crossed  that  boundary ,  and  yet 
My  inner  being  seemeth  young. 

I  feel  no  wrinkles  on  the  heart, 

Time  has  not  chilled  the  social  glow, 

Music  and  chastened  mirth  impart 
Their  pleasing  spell  of  long  ago. 

The  birds  that  carol  at  the  dawn, 

The  bees  that  through  the  clover  swarm, 

And  children  playing  on  the  lawn, 
For  me  have  lost  no  early  charm. 

Science,  invention,  art  and  song, 
The  life  and  progress  of  the  age, 

The  warfare  with  the  false  and  wrong 
That  patriots  and  Christians  wage, 

All  that  promotes  the  weal  of  men, 
Or  helps  them  on  their  upward  way, 


138  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Attract  me  at  threescore  and  ten 
As  under  life's  meridian  ray. 

And  though  my  eye  is  doubl}*  dim, 
And  natural  force  begins  to  wane — 

Less  strong  of  arm  and  lithe  of  limb — 
Still  thought  and  memory  remain. 

But  early  friends  of  whom  I  dream, 
Are  growing  fewer  }*ear  by  year, 

And  if  I  linger  I  shall  seem 
A  lone  belated  stranger  here. 

The  friendly  deference  I  meet 

From  3'ounger  travellers  near  and  far, 

When  crossing  o'er  the  crowded  street, 
Or  stepping  from  the  halted  car, 

.    Reminds  me  that  the  Alpine  snow 

Has  drifted  over  brow  and  beard ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  be  beloved,  I  know, 
But  solemn  thus  to  be  revered. 

It  tells  me  that  the  hour  is  near, 
Although  in  love  deferred  so  long, 

When  I  from  earth  shall  disappear 
And  mingle  with  the  silent  throng. 

But  earth  will  smile  as  gay  and  green 
Arid  heaven  still  shine  in  gold  and  blue, 

When  I  have  vanished  from  the  scene, 
And  friends  will  soon  their  calm  renew. 

How  little  good  we  can  achieve 

With  all  the  foils  encountered  here  ; 

Then  it  were  weak  and  vain  to  grieve 
When  passing  to  a  purer  sphere. 

New  ranks  will  rush  with  deed  and  thought 
To  bear  the  moral  standard  high  ; 

And  the  small  good  that  I  have  wrought 
Has  taken  root  and  cannot  die. 

And  on  this  truth  I  rest  my  heart ; 

Since  all  to  future  life  aspire, 
He  who  implanted  will  not  thwart 

This  inborn,  deathless,  pure  desire. 


JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE.  139 

As  the  long-vctyaging  Genoese 

To  the  new  world  he  sought  drew  near, 

The  balm  of  flowers  borne  on  the  breeze 
Came  from  the  land  his  faith  to  cheer, — 

So  when  we  near  the  Eden  shore, 

Before  its  hills  of  light  are  seen, 
The  fragrance  of  its  peace  comes  o'er 

The  narrow  sea  that  flows  between. 


James  J^eeman  (tflarfce. 

Rev.  James  Freeman  Clarke  was  born  in  Hanover,  April  4, 1810.  He  graduated 
at  Harvard  College  in  1829,  and  at  Cambridge  Divinity  School  in  1833.  He  was 
pastor  of  a  society  in  L/ouisville,  Ky.,  from  1833  to  1840,  when  he  returned  to  Bos 
ton,  and  became  highly  popular  as  a  preacher.  He  is  author  of  several  volumes 
of  sermons,  and  is  a  poet  of  solid  merit. 


THE  SHIP. 

Look  not  for  art  where  idle  brows 

Dream  distant  from  the  throng, 
But  where  the  rushing  stream  of  men 

Impetuous  rolls  along ; 
Not  where  the  rich  with  Gothic  roofs 

And  Doric  pillars  play, 
But  where  the  tempest  sweeps  our  shores — 

Look  out  on  Boston  Bay  ! 

There  floats  the  gem  of  modern  art, 

By  no  Palladio  planned, 
The  architecture  of  the  sea, 

Unrivalled  on  the  land. 
The  storms  have  moulded  every  curve 

To  beauty's  perfect  line, 
The  waters  rounded  ever}'  part 

To  symmetry  divine. 

The  winds  and  waves,  wild  masters  they, 

The  just  proportion  taught, 
And  with  the  safety  and  the  speed, 

The  Graces  came,  unsought. 
Can  those  who  built  the  Parthenon, 

Or  Strasburg's  Minster,  dare 
Their  clumsy  walls  with  this  fair  form 

In  beauty  to  compare  ? 

She  sits  so  stately  on  the  wave, 
So  gracefully  she  bends, 


140  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Leans  from  the  breeze,  and  from  her  prow 

The  rippling  music  sends  ; 
And  when  the  airs  come  fresh  from  land, 

Her  sails  all  drawing  free, 
She  skims  so  light,  with  pinions  white, 

The  darling  of  the  sea  ! 


TRIFORMIS  DIANA. 

So  pure  her  forehead's  dazzling  white, 

So  swift  and  clear  her  radiant  eyes, 
Within  the  treasure  of  whose  light 

Lay  undeveloped  destinies, — 
Of  thoughts  repressed  such  hidden  store 

Was  hinted  \>\  each  flitting  smile, 
I  could  but  wonder  and  adore  ; 

Far  off,  in  awe,  I  gazed  the  while. 

I  gazed  at  her,  as  at  the  moon, 
Hanging  in  lustrous  twilight  skies, 

Whose  virgin  crescent,  sinking  soon, 
Peeps  through  the  leaves  before  it  flies. 

Untouched  Diana,  flitting  dim, 

While  sings  the  wood  its  evening  hymn. 

Again  we  met.     O,  joyful  meeting ! 

Her  radiance  now  was  all  for  me, 
Like  kindly  airs  her  kindly  greeting, 

So  full,  so  musical,  so  free. 
Within  romantic  forest  aisles, 

Within  romantic  paths  we  walked, 
I  bathed  me  in  her  sister  smiles, 

I  breathed  her  beauty  as  we  talked. 

So  full-orbed  Cynthia  walks  the  skies, 
Filling  the  earth  with  melodies, 

Even  so  she  condescends  to  kiss 

Drowsy  Endj'mions,  coarse  and  dull, 

Or  fills  our  waking  souls  with  bliss, 
Making  long  nights  too  beautiful. 

O,  fair  but  fickle  lady-moon, 

Why  must  thy  full  form  ever  wane? 

O,  love  !  O,  friendship  !  why  so  soon 
Must  3'our  sweet  light  recede  again  ? 

I  wake  me  in  the  dead  of  night, 

And  start — for  through  the  misty  gloom 


JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE.  Hi 

Red  Hecate  stares — =a  boding  sight ! — 
Looks  in,  but  never  fills  my  room. 

Thou  music  of  my  boyhood's  hour ! 

Thou  shining  light  on  manhood's  way  ! 
No  more  dost  thou  fair  influence  shower 

To  move  my  soul  by  night  or  day. 
O,  strange  !  that  while  in  hall  and  street 

Thy  hand  I  touch,  thy  grace  I  meet, 
Such  miles  of  polar  ice  should  part 

The  slightest  touch  of  mind  and  heart ! 
But  all  thy  love  has  waned,  and  so 

I  gladly  let  thy  beauty  go. 


THE  POET. 

Extract  from  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Poem  delivered  in  1846. 

Nor  think  the  poet's  highest  task,  in  our  more  earnest  age, 

To  entertain,  with  silky  strain,  or  fill  an  album's  page  ; 

For,  as  the  flower  precedes  the  fruit,  the  fruit  attends  the  seed, 

So  poetry,  the  flower  of  life,  consorts  with  thought  and  deed. 

The  poet  is  a  warrior,  doing  battle  for  his  kind — 

The  poet  is  a  hero,  with  a  spirit  unconflned  ; 

A  lyric  fount  shall  burst  from  earth,  and  foam  out  free  and  far, 

When  great  Ideas  arm  themselves  for  spiritual  war. 

With  noble  form  and  gleaming  eye,  I  see  the  heroic  child, 

With  no  low  thought  polluted,  and  with  spirit  undefiled, 

As  angel  pure,  but  passionate — a  mountain-torrent  bold, 

Whose  leap  is  like  a  flashing  flame,  whose  touch  is  icy  cold. 

Him,  our  whole  land  shall  nourish  long,  him  shall  all  Nature 

teach ; 

The  melodies  of  woods  and  winds  shall  harmonize  his  speech ; 
The  lofty  forest's  lights  and  shades  and  multitude  of  hues, 
Into  his  face  a  sylvan  grace  shall  quietly  infuse. 
Thoughts  deep  ,and  calm  the  caves  shall  lend,  where,  winding 

dark  below, 

Through  many  a  labyrinthine  mile  mysteriously  they  go. 
There  ancient  Silence,  undisturbed,  holds  her  eternal  reign — 
Unheard,  the  thunders  roll  above — unheard,  the  hurricane. 
The  grassj'  prairie  rolling  wide,  a  boundless  floweiy  sea, 
Swept  by  unfettered  breezes  oft,  shall  make  his  soul  more  free. 
And  where  the  solemn  mountains  breathe  the  chilly  morning  air, 
And  wreaths  of  climbing  vapor-clouds  around  their  shoulders 

wear, 
Far  looking  toward  the  breaking  day,  bathed  in  its  earliest  beam, 


M2  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

While  mist}'  night  still  sleeps  below-,  on  valley,  wood,  and  stream, 
His  soul  shall  tower  toward  God  and  truth,  and  catch  the  flrst 

bright  ray 

Which  o'er  the  sleeping  nations  comes,  to  wake  a  nobler  day. 
Or  where  the  ocean  rushes  up,  and  breaks  in  shattering  shock, 
Deep  covering  with  tumultuous  waves  the  lone  outstanding  rock  ; 
Then,  baffled  by  the  unyielding  foe,  falls  off  and  rolls  away, 
Along  the  shore,  with  sullen  roar,  defeated  of  its  prey — 
The  plainly  speaking  emblem  shall  instruct  him  to  oppose 
The  firm,  calm  front  of  reason,  to  the  passion  of  his  foes. 
Thus  armed,  and  thus  accomplished,  in  tun,  shall  be  combined 
All  energies. of  thought  and  heart,  all  grace  of  form  and  mind. 
Then  free  from  selfishness  and  fear,  and  ready  for  the  strife, 
lie  on  the  battle-ground  of  truth,  shall  dedicate  his  life 
To  conflict  nobler  far  than  that  where  through  the  smoke  was  seen 
The  squadron's  charge,  while  iron  death  poured  down  the  Palm 

Ravine. 

Far  woi'thier  shall  this  battle  be,  more  terrible  the  blows, 
When  thoughts  deep-rooted  in  the  mind  contend  as  deadly  foes. 
Then  fall  the  ancient  dogmas,  and  the  lies  long  sanctified, 
And  frauds,  which,  throned  as  customs,  have  both  God  and  man 

defied — 

Such  heroes  we  may  hope  to  see,  when  from  our  people's  veins 
The  brute  and  savage  instincts  pass,  and  but  the  man  remains. 


Caroline  ©rnc. 


Mrs  Orne,  whose  name,  previous  to  marriage,  was  Chaplin,  was  a  native  of 
Georgetown,  Mass.  She  became  the  wife  of  Henry  H.  Orne,  a  lawyer,  and  remov 
ed  to  Wolfeborough.  She  manifested  a  taste  for  writing  when  young.  At  ten  years 
of  age  she  wrote  stories,  and  at  sixteen  a  song  which  was  very  popular  before  it 
was  known  who  wrote  it.  She  died  in  Bellingham,  Mass.,  June  21,  1882. 


SABBATH  EVENING. 

'Tis  the  eve  of  the  Sabbath ;  all  is  so  still 

That  the  wing  of  the  bird,  as  it  flies  to  its  nest, 

Sends  forth  a  low  rustle,  and  sweet  murmurs  thrill 

On  the  ear,  though  the  earth  and  the  winds  are  at  rest, 

Like  music  that  flows  from  the  harp's  golden  strings, 

When  swept  by  some  spirit's  invisible  wings. 

Even  yonder  white  cloud,  in  the  fair  evening  sky, 
Its  bosom  just  tinged  with  the  hue  of  the  rose, 

As  it  moves,  like  a  fairy  sail,  noiselessly  by, 

Has  a  look  that  partakes  of  the  Sabbath's  repose  ; 

But  the  calm  and  the  stillness,  more  hoty  than  all, 

Are  those  o'er  the  spirit  that  silently  fall. 


CAROLINE  OENE.  143 

As  the  flower,  pale  and  drooping,  doth  heavenward  turn, 
When  the  day's  garish  splendor  no  more  meets  the  eye, 

And  while  the  fresh  dewdrops  steal  into  its  urn, 
Its  perfume  gives  out  to  the  breeze  floating  by, 

From  our  hearts  may  the  incense  of  praise,  this  blest  hour, 

Flow  forth  like  the  fragrance  that  breathes  from  the  flower, 


THE  EXILE. 

Dear  home  of  my  childhood !  the  mem'ries  ye  bring 
To  my  heart  at  this  lone  hour  of  night, 

Come  soft  as  if  borne  on  some  bird's  downy  wing, 
Just  returned  from  its  heavenward  flight. 

Bright  and  hoty's  the  spell  o'er  iny  spirit  that's  thrown, 

As  I  list  the  low  voice  of  the  wind, 
For  in  its  faint  whispers  I  dream  there's  a  tone, 

Like  the  voices  of  friends  left  behind. 

But  the  spell  that  so  deep  o'er  my  spirit  was  cast 

Like  the  mist  of  the  morning  is  gone, 
And  the  fairy-like  scene  that  had  pictured  the  past 

From  my  still  longing  sight  is  withdrawn. 

Lo !  I  turn  to  the  star  I  so  used  to  love,  when 
I  watched  with  dear  friends  its  pure  ray — 

O,  could  I  gaze  nightly  like  that  on  the  glen, 
Where  I  used  in  my  childhood  to  stray — 

See  the  cottage,  mid  vines  and  mid  trees  peeping  out, 

Like  a  bird  in  its  reed-woven  nest, 
And  hear  the  rich  laugh,  and  clear,  merry  shout 

Of  the  golden-haired  girl  I  loved  best ; 

Could  I  see  by  her  side,  those,  my  other  dear  friends, 

Whose  hearts  are  all  mingled  in  one, 
As  the  drop  from  the  skies,  with  its  sister  drop  blends, 

Till  all  in  the  same  channel  run. . 

For  the  home  of  my  childhood  no  more  would  I  pine, 
When  the  curtain  of  night  o'er  me  closes, 

Which  beneath  the  old  elm,  and  the  shadowy  vine, 
In  the  heart  of  the  green  glen  reposes. 

Yet,  still,  like  a  flower-woven  zone,  would  I  bind 

Its  memories  close  round  my  heart, 
And  the  cold  hand  of  death  alone  should  unwind 

The  links  which  of  life  make  a  part. 


144  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  HEART'S  GUESTS. 

When  age  has  cast  its  shadows 

O'er  life's  declining  way, 
When  evening  twilight  gathers 

Round  our  retiring  day, 
Then  shall  we  sit  and  ponder 

Upon  the  shadow}'  past, 
In  the  heart's  silent  chamber 

The  guests  will  gather  fast. 

Guests  that  in  jxmth  we  cherished 

Shall  come  to  us  once  more, 
And  we  shall  hold  communion 

As  in  the  days  of  yore. 
They  may  be  dark  and  sombre, 

They  may  be  bright  and  fair, 
But  the  heart  will  have  its  chamber, 

The  guests  will  gather  there. 

How  shall  it  be,  my  sisters? 

Who  shall  be  our  hearts'  guests  ? 
How  shall  it  be,  my  brothers, 

When  life's  shadow  on  us  rests  ? 
Shall  we  not  mid  the  silence 

Hear  voices  sweet  and  low, 
Speak  the  old  familiar  language, 

The  words  of  long  ago? 

Shall  we  not  see  dear  faces, 

Sweet  smiling  as  of  old, 
Till  mists  of  that  lone  chamber 

Are  sunset  clouds  of  gold, 
When  age  has  cast  its  shadows 

O'er  life's  declining  way, 
And  evening  twilight  gathers 

Round  our  retiring  day? 


Joiju  Creenleaf  Sltrams. 

Rev.  John  G.  Adams  was  born  In  Portsmouth,  July  30, 1810.  His  early  training 
by  a  religious  mother  was  such  that  he  was  not  acquainted  with  the  doctrines  of 
the  church  in  which  he  was  at'ierwards  a  minister  until  he  was  18.  At  this  age 
he  was  a  resident  at  Exeter,  and  there  became  a  convert  to  the  Universalist  faith. 
His  first  sermon  was  preached  in  \Vestbrook,  Me.,  January  "29, 1832.  After  preach 
ing  and  studying  most  of  that  year,  he  removed  to  Kumney,  where  he  was  ordain- 
ea  in  June  183:5.  He  worked  as  a  missionary  in  the  northern  part  of  New  Hamp 
shire  until  the  autumn  of  ixifi,  when  lir  became  pastor  of  the  Universalist  Church 
In  Claremont;  and,  after  a  ministry  of  fifteen  months  there,  he  removed  to  Maiden, 
Mass.,  where  he  had  a  pastorate  of  fifteen  years.  During  his  residence  in  New 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  ADAMS.  145 

Hampshire  he  was  editor  of  the  "Star  in  the  East,"  a  Universalist  weekly,  issued  at 
Concord  for  three  and  a  half  years.  From  Maiden  he  removed  to  Worcester, 
Mass.,  where  he  ministered  seven  years;  thence  to  Providence,  R.  I.,  where  he 
tarried  five  years;  thence  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  where,  after  a  ministry  of  six  and  a 
half  years,  he  resigned,  and  was  a  minister  at  large  during  one  or  two  years. 
After  a  pastorate  of  three  years  in  Cincinnati,  O.,  he  returned  to  New  England, 
and  settled  in  his  own  home  at  Melrose  Highlands,  Mass.,  where  he  now  resides. 
While  here  he  has  had  five  years  of  supply  preachiug  in  Allston  and  East  Boston. 
In  addition  to  his  constant  work  as  a  pastor  he  has  published  fifteen  volumes  of 
different  sizes,  besides  pamphlets  and  tracts,  and  has  edited  Sunday  School  period 
icals  for  twenty-two  years. 


GOD'S  ANGELS. 

God's  angels !  not  only  on  high  do  they  sing, 
And  soar  through  the  skies  with  invisible  wing ; 
But  here,  on  the  earth,  where  in  wretchedness  lie 
Its  sin-stricken  children  to  struggle  and  die, 

They  come,  in  their  mercy  and  power,  to  dispel 
The  spectres  of  gloom  from  the  prisoner's  cell ; 
In  love's  name  to  sa}r  to  the  stricken  one  there, 
That  God  still  will  hear  and  give  answer  to  prayer. 

And  strong  grows  the  heart  of  the  outcast,  and  soon 
In  that  dim  prison  come  the  pure  light-gleams  of  noon  ; 
The  resolve  and  the  faith  of  the  sinner  forgiven 
Send  him  back"  to  the  world  with  a  heart  seeking  heaven. 

God's  angels !  Love  speed  them  o'er  earth's  wide  domain, 
New  aids  to  impart,  and  new  triumphs  to  gain ; 
Till  the  wrathful  and  wrong  from  our  world  shall  retire, 
And  humanity's  groans  in  her  praises  expire. 

For  the  promise  of  truth,  though  the  doubting  deny, 
Is  that  love  shall  prevail  in  the  earth  as  on  high, 
Its  life-waters  healing,  wherever  they  flow, 
With  the  angels  above,  or  the  angels  below. 


HEAVEN  HERE. 

Heaven  is  here ;  its  hymns  of  gladness 
Cheer  the  true  believer's  way, 

In  this  world  where  sin  and  sadness 
Often  change  to  night  our  day. 

Heaven  is  here  ;  where  miser}'  lightened 

Of  its  heavy  load  is  seen, 
Where  the  face  of  sorrow  brightened 

By  the  deed  of  love  hath  been. 


146  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Where  the  bound,  the  poor,  despairing 
Are  set  free,  supplied  and  blest, 

Where,  in  others'  anguish  sharing, 
We  can  find  our  surest  rest. 

Where  we  heed  the  voice  of  duty 
Rather  than  man's  praise  or  rod  ; 

This  is  heaven,  its  peace,  its  beauty, 
Radiant  with  the  smile  of  God. 


STRIVE  TO   MAKE  THE  WORLD   BETTER. 

Strive  to  make  the  world  better ! — this,  this  is  the  duty 

Proclaimed  to  each  'mortal  in  truth  every  hour  ; 
Call  not  its  wrong,  right, — its  deformity,  beauty : 

In  the  midst  of  its  weakness,  remember  God's  power, 
And,  though  in  a  minute  no  wrong  can  be  righted, 

Think  not  of  contentment  with  just  what  you  see  : 
The  world  needs  repentance,  where  souls  are  so  blighted  ; 

And  what  it  is  now  is  not  what  it  must  be  ! 

"Take  the  world  as  it  is  !"     To  be  sure,  if  such  taking 

Will  win  you  the  heart  of  a  brother,  or  lend 
A  soft  word  or  kind  look  that  shall,  haply,  be  making 

Some  ruin-bound  pilgrim  his  life-ways  amend, 
If  to  praise  it  shall  call  thee,  or  sutfering,  or  prayer, 

To  discipline  such  as  maj-  strengthen  thy  heart, — 
Be  thankful  for  this,  every  way,  but  beware 

Lest  thy  world-taking  lesson  be  learned  but  in  part  ? 

"Take  the  world  as  it  is  !"     So  the  world's  honored  sages 

Of  many  a  clime  have  consented  and  taught  ; 
So  walked  with  mankind  the  true  Guide  of  all  ages  ; 

So  lived  his  apostles,  and  labored  and  wrought, — • 
Yet  not  to  be  easy  with  present  attainments, 

Assenting  to  evil  in  lullaby  song, 
But,  rather,  to  startle,  with  Truth's  strong  arraignments, 

The  victims  of  sin  and  the  lovers  of  wrong ! 

"Take  the  world  as  it  is  !"     How  the  slothful  and  sleeping 

Have  ever  consented  these  words  to  obey  ! 
Conservator  dolts  still  their  sluggish  steps  keeping, 

And  fearing  the  angel  Reform  in  their  way  ! 
The  selfish  observer  of  manners  and  men, 

Who  would  never  offend  by  his  arrant  fault-finding, 
Provided  his  own  ends  are  answered  — and  then, 

All  the  world  is  but  good,  and  its  faults  not  worth  minding ! 


ESTHER  WALDEN  BARNES.  147 

Strive  to  make  the  world  better !     How  true  to  this  aim 

Have  the  heroes  of  Right  kept  their  way  in  the  past : 
'Mid  the  world's  accusations,  through  dungeon  and  flame, 

Abroad  have  the  seeds  of  their  greatness  been  cast ! 
And  we  have  the  harvest, — their  word  have  we,  too, 

That  the  seed-time  for  us  is  to-day  !     Let  it  be 
That  the  world  we  now  have,  though  so  goodly  to  view, 

Is  not  that  improved  one  to-morrow  shall  see  ! 


SEsdjet 

Miss  Barnes  is  a  native,  and  has  been  all  her  life  a  resident,  of  Portsmouth. 
Her  father  was  by  birth  a  Swede,  the  only  son  of  an  officer  in  the  Swedish  army. 
He  was  born  in  1776  in  Gottenburg,  Sweden,  and  from  that  memorable  year,  seemed 
to  have  imbibed  a  love  for,  and  a  longing  to  see  America.  On  his  arrival  in  this 
country,  in  early  youth,  he  waa  persuaded  by  a  clergyman,  with  whom  he  was  a 
great  favorite,  to  change  his  name  from  Ludwig  Baarnhielm  to  Lewis  Barnes,  for 
greater  convenience  in  pronunciation.  In  1800  he  became  a  resident  of  Portsmouth, 
where  he  was  long  a  shipping  merchant,  much  respected  in  the  community,  and  iden 
tified  witli  all  the  interests  of  the  place.  His  name  was  a  symonym  for  truth,  honor 
and  integrity.  The  mother  of  Miss  Barnes  was  of  remote  English  descent.  She  was 
born  In  1783.  Both  parents  were  patriotic  to  an  unusual  degree.  Her  father  never 
wearied  of  reading  the  lives  of  our  revolutionary  heroes,  always  declaring  thut 
they  were  men  inspired  with  supernatural  power  for  that  emergency,  and  raised  up 
by  the  Almighty  for  the  salvation  of  our  country.  Miss  Barnes  has  published,  in 
papers,  annuals,  and  magazines,  a  considerable  amount  of  prose  and  verse,  all  of  a 
very  creditable  character.  She  has  also  published  several  volumes  for  the  young. 


FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY. 

Rest,  heroes  rest !  all  conflicts  now  are  ended, 
Rest,  witli  the  martyr's  crown  upon  each  brow  : 
While  grateful  hearts  and  loving  hands  are  trailing 
Flowers  of  the  summer  o'er  the  green  turf  now. 
Fresh  is  the  memory  of  your  deeds  of  daring, 
Oh,  bold,  brave  hearts  !  that  rest  beneath  the  sod  ; 
And  we  will  keep  it  fresh,  with  floral  incense, — 
A  spring-time  ottering  of  the  gifts  of  God  ; 

Rest,  warriors  rest. 

Ye  cannot  die,  while  yet  your  memory  liyeth, 
Unseen,  where  sacred  thoughts  are  set  apart; 
Nor  can  your  names  from  out  Time's  record  perish 
While  they  are  written  on  a  nation's  heart ! 
Your  blood  has  washed  from  off  our  country's  banner, 
The  deep,  dark  stain  of  Slavery's  cruel  wrong : 
And  now,  "the  stars  and  stripes"  more  fitly  symbol 
The  "land  of  freedom"  breathed  in  verse  and  song. 

Rest,  heroes  rest ! 

Your  lives  you've  laid  upon  your  country's  altar, — 
A  bleeding  sacrifice,  by  land  and  sea — 
And  we  shall  never  let  the  memoiy  perish, 
Of  deeds  deserving  immortality. 


148  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  roll  of  drum,  the  bugle-note,  the  clarion, 
No  more  shall  call  you  to  the  field  of  strife  ; 
But  this  "Memorial  Day,"  to  future  ages, 
Shall  tell  how  Liberty  was  bought  with  Life  ! 

Rest,  patriots,  rest ! 


EASTER  CAROL. 

Tis  "of  thine  own  we  give  Thee,"  gracious  God  ! 
Flowers  of  the  spring-time  !  offerings  from  the  sod. 
Tinted  by  thine  own  hand,  with  rainbow  dyes, 
Or  with  the  gold  and  blue  of  sunset  skies  ; 
Of  all  earth's  boundless  gifts,  to  Thee  we  bring 
Nought  that  is  holier,  as  an  offering. 

Oh  !  glorious  sj'mbols  of  the  Easter  morn  ! 

Out  of  decay,  and  death,  and  darkness  born : 

Springing  to  light  and  life,  from  out  the  tomb 

Of  nature's  desolation,  sadness,  gloom  ; 

Ye  come,  sweet  flowers !  with  fragrance  pure  and  rare, 

To  blend  your  incense  with  the  breath  of  prayer. 

Christ  hath  arisen,  "with  healing  in  His  wings." 

Ye  have  arisen,  O,  bright  and  beauteous  things  ! 

To  tell  us  of  that  resurrection  morn, 

When  we,  immortal,  from  the  grave  new  born, 

With  bodies  glorified,  to  life  shall  rise, 

And  meet  the  Saviour  in  the  bending  skies. 


Eoutea  gimes. 


This  writer  resides  in  New  Providence,  New  Jersey.  She  was  born  in  Ports 
mouth,  in  1811.  Her  life  has  been  uneventful,  having  thus  far  been  passed  at 
home  with  her  family. 


FROM  YOUTH  TO  MANHOOD. 

Lift  up  thine  eye,  the  field  of  life  before  thee 

Smiles  in  the  glory  of  its  summer  day ; 
Rough  paths  are  these,  but  flowers  sweet  and  lowly. 

Lift  their  fair  petals  cheering  all  the  way. 

Gather  thou  these — their  form,  their  hue,  their  wreathing 
Make  solemn  impress  on  the  grateful  heart ; 

Each  cup  of  joy  is  purer  for  their  breathing, 
And  for  each  grief  they  can  a  balm  impart. 


LOUISA  SIMES.  149 


Open  thine  heart — around,  within  are  glowing 
The  blessed  halos  of  all  circling  love  ; 

Awake — arise — so  the  glad  stream  o'erflowing 
Shall  lave  with  tribute  where  its  waters  move. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  the  ever  whitening  harvest 
Pours  its  fair  promise  where  the  worker  hies  ; 

Glean  and  dispense.     The  spirit  true  and  earnest 
Garners  the  shining  wreath  of  earth  and  skies. 

Unvail  thy  soul  for  full  and  free  expansion, 
A  child's  devotion,  and  a  brother's  love — 

These  make  the  pillars  of  that  holy  mansion, 
Waiting  the  faithful  in  our  home  above. 

Unvail  thy  soul — set  thou  no  bound  nor  limit 
Of  field  or  purpose  to  its  white-winged  flight ; 

God  prizeth  every  effort  of  the  spirit 
Out  of  the  shadow  up  to  truth  and  light. 


TO  THE  CLOUDS. 

Beautiful  dust  of  the  Great  One's  feet 
From  glory  to  glory  ye  change, 
Like  wafted  curtains  of  some  bright  land 
Where  the  glad  in  heart  might  range  ! 

I  love  3"our  floating  beneath  the  sk}-, 

And  giving  your  trust  to  earth, 
And  your  dreamy  sleep  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 

Till  the  ripples  leap  with  mirth. 

Ye  cradle  the  force  of  the  wildest  storm, 
And  the  zephyr's  breath  ye  hold — 

There  is  fearful  might,  on  A'our  wing  of  night, 
And  peace  on  your  waves  of  gold. 

Ye  are  symbols  to  me  of  human  life, 

Making  the  heavens  above 
More  pure  and  bright  for  your  shadowy  light, 

More  worthy  the  fulness  of  love. 

Ever  the  sunset  path  we  near, 

Where  present  and  unseen  meet — 

In  garment  as  fair  as  the  cloudlets  wear 
May  we  rest  at  the  Great  One's  feet ! 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


i^tirace  (Greeleg. 


Horace  Greeley  was  born  in  Amherst,  February  3,  1811.  He  learned  the  trade  of 
a  printer,  in  Poultney,  Vermont.  In  1831  he  went  to  New  York  city  where  he  labor 
ed  as  a  journeyman.  In  1833  he  went  into  business  on  his  own  account.  The  next 
year  he  added'to  his  establishment  a  newspaper,  the  New  Yorker.  In  1841  he  com 
menced  the  publication  of  the  New  York  Tribune,  with  which  paper  he  was  connect 
ed  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  has  been  a  member  of  Congress,  and  in 
1872  was  the  Democratic  candidate  for  the  Presidency.  He  died  Nov.  29,  1872. 


THE  FADED  STARS. 

I  mind  the  time  when  heaven's  high  dome 

Woke  in  my  sgnl  a  wondrous  thrill — 
When  every  leaf  of  Nature's  tome 

Bespoke  creation's  marvels  still ; 
When  mountain  cliff  and  sweeping  glade, 

As  morn  unclosed  her  rosy  bars, 
Woke  joys  intense,  but  naught  e'er  bade 

My  heart  leap  up,  like  you,  bright  stars, 

Calm  ministrants  t&  God's  high  glory  ; 

Pure  gems  around  His  burning  throne ; 
Mute  watchers  o'er  man's  strange,  sad  story 

Of  crime  and  woe  through  ages  gone  ! 
'Twas  yours  the  wild  and  hallowed  spell 

That  lured  me  from  ignoble  gleams — 
Taught  me  where  sweeper  fountains  swell 

Than  ever  bless  the  worldling's  dreams. 

How  changed  was  life !  a  waste  no  more, 

Beset  by  want,  and  pain,  and  wrong  ; 
Earth  seemed  a  glad  and  fairy  shore, 

Vocal  with  hope's  inspiring  song ; 
But,  ye,  bright  sentinels  of  heaven, 

For  glories  of  night's  radiant  sky, 
Who,  as  3*e  gemmed  the  brow  of  even, 

Have  never  dreamed  man  born  to  die. 

'Tis  faded  now,  that  wondrous  grace 

That  once  on  heaven's  forehead  shone  ; 
I  read  no  more  in  nature's  face 

A  soul  responsive  to  my  own. 
A  dimness  on  my  eye  and  spirit, 

Stern  time  has  cast  in  hurrying  by ; 
Few  JO3"S  my  hardier  j'ears  inherit, 

And  leaden  dulness  rules  the  sky. 

Yet  mourn  I  not ;  a  stern,  high  duty 
Now  nerves  my  arm  and  fires  ni}'  brain  ; 

Perish  the  dream  of  shapes  of  beauty, 
So  that  this  strife  be  not  in  vain ; 


HORACE  OREELET.  151 


To  war  on  fraud  entranced  with  power, 
Or  smooth  pretence  and  specious  wrong, 

This  task  be  mine,  though  fortune  lower  ; 
For  this  be  banished  sky  and  song. 


DARKNESS  OVER  EARTH  WAS  SLEEPING. 

Darkness  over  earth  was  sleeping — 

Gathered  gloom  of  thousand  years, 
Since  the  Goths  the  Scythians  sweeping, 

Drenched  Rome's  hearths  in  blood  and  tears. 
Dwarfed  had  grown  man's  mental  stature ; 

Quenched  was  Genius'  meteor  blaze  ; 
Ruined  Art  and  savage  Nature 

Spoke  the  reign  of  evil  days. 

Thence  evolved,  one  art's  bright  beaming, 

Owned  no  kindred  with  the  hour ;  '   . 

From  its  birth  a  beacon  gleaming — 

Foe  to  fraud  and  tyrant's  power. 
Glorious  Faust !  be  thine  the  praises, 

"World-bestowed,  for  knowledge  given  ; 
Thine  the  spark  whose  watchflre  blazes 

Radiant  as  the  orb  of  heaven. 

Onward  still  that  light  is  speeding  ; 

Wider  fall  its  cheering  beams  ; 
By  it  truth's  deep  lessons  reading, 

Waking  millions  bless  its  gleams. 
Glorious  art !  thy  children  hail  thee  ; 

Tyrants  only  are  thy  foes  ; 
Freedom's  day-star !  naught  shall  pale  thee — 

Dark  was  earth  till  printing  rose. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  WIRT. 

Rouse  not  the  muffled  drum, 
Wake  not  the  martial  trumpet's  mournful  sound 
For  him  whose  mighty  voice  in  death  is  dumb  ; 
Who  in  the  zenith  of  his  high  renown 

To  the  grave  went  down. 

Invoke  no  cannon's  breath 
To  swell  the  requiem  o'er  his  ashes  poured — 
Silent^  bear  him  to  the  home  of  death  ; 
The  aching  hearts  b}'  whom  he  was  adored 

He  won  not  with  the  sword. 


152  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

No  !     Let  affection's  tear 
Be  the  sole  tribute  to  his  memory  paid  ; 
Earth  has  no  monument  so  justly  dear 
To  souls  like  his  in  purity  arrayed 

Never  to  fade. 

I  loved  thee,  patriot  chief; 
I  battled  proudly  'neath  thy  banner  pure  ; 
Mine  is  the  breast  of  woe — the  heart  of  grief, 
Which  suffer  on  unmindful  of  a  cure — 

Proud  to  endure. 

But  vain  the  voice  of  wail 
For  thee,  from  the  dim  vale  of  sorrow  fled — 
Earth  has  no  spell  whose  magic  shall  not  fail 
To  light  the  gloom  that  shrouds  thy  narrow  bed, 

Or  woo  thee  from  the  dead. 

Then  take  thy  long  repose 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  deep  green  sod  : 
Death  but  a  brighter  halo  o'er  thee  throws ; 
Thy  fame,  thy  soul  alike  have  spurned  the  clod  ; 

Rest  thee  in  God. 


FANTASIES. 

They  deem  me  cold,  the  thoughtless  and  light-hearted, 

In  that  I  worship  not  at  Beauty's  shrine  : 
They  deem  me  cold,  that  through  the  years  departed, 

I  ne'er  have  bowed  me  to  some  form  divine. 
They  deem  me  proud,  that,  where  the  world  hath  flattered, 

I  ne'er  have  knelt  to  languish  or  adore  ; 
The}'  think  not  that  the  homage  idly  scattered 

Leaves  the  heart  bankrupt,  ere  its  spring  is  o'er. 

No  !  in  my  soul  there  glows  but  one  bright  vision, 

And  o'er  my  heart  there  rules  but  one  fond  spell, 
Bright'ning  my  hours  of  sleep  with  dreams  Elysian 

Of  one  unseen,  yet  loved,  aye,  cherished  well. 
Unseen?  Ah,  no;  her  presence  round  me  lingers, 

Chasing  each  wayward  thought  that  tempts  to  rove  ; 
Weaving  affection's  web  with  fairy  fingers, 

And  waking  thoughts  of  purity  and  love. 

Star  of  my  heaven  !  thy  beams  shall  guide  me  ever, 
Though  clouds  obscure  and  thorns  bestrew  my  path ; 

As  sweeps  my  bark  adown  life's  arrowy  river 
Thy  angel  smile  shall  soothe  misfortune's  wrath  ; 


MARY  STEARNS  PATTERSON.  153 

And,  O,  should  fate  e'er  speed  her  deadliest  arrow, 
Should  vice  allure  to  plunge  in  her  dark  sea, 

Be  this  the  only  shield  my  soul  shall  borrow — 

One  glance  of  heaven,  one  burning  thought  of  thee. 

I  ne'er  on  earth  may  gaze  on  those  bright  features, 

Nor  drink  the  light  of  that  soul-beaming  eye  ; 
But  wander  on  'mid  earth's  unthinking  creatures 

Unloved  in  life,  and  unlamented  die  ; 
But  ne'er  shall  fade  the  spell  thou  weavest  o'er  me, 

Nor  fail  the  star  that  lights  my  lowly  way  ; 
Still  shall  the  night's  fond  dreams  that  light  restore  me, 

Though  fate  forbid  its  gentler  beams  bj'  day. 

I  have  not  dreamed  that  gold  or  gems  adorn  thee — 

That  Flatt'ry's  voice  may  vaunt  thy  matchless  form  ; 
I  little  reck  that  worldlings  all  may  scorn  thee, 

Be  but  thy  soul  still  pure,  thy  feelings  warm. 
Be  thine  bright  Intellect's  unfading  treasures, 

And  Poesy's  more  deeply-hallowed  spell, 
And  faith,  the  zest  that  heightens  all  thy  pleasures, 

With  trusting  love — Maid  of  my  soul,  farewell. 


Stearns 


Miss  Patterson  was  born  in  Nashua,  March  3,  1811.  She  graduated  at  the  Troy- 
Female  Seminary  at  the  age  of  twenty  -two,  and  most  of  her  life,  until  disabled  by 
illness,  has  been  devoted  to  teaching.  The  fields  of  labor  in  which  she  served  quite 
acceptably  were  at  Oberlin,  Ohio;  New  Britain,  Connecticut;  Suffolk,  Virginia  ;  and 
New  Hampton,  this  State;  and  for  several  years  she  was  principal  of  the  Female 
Department  of  Cortland  Academy  ,  at  Homer,  N.  Y.  She  resides  in  Lawrence,  Mass. 


THE  AUTUMN  ROSE. 

I  saw,  one  bright  autumnal  day, 

A  beauteous  rose  unfold  ; 
And  to  a  genial  sun  display 

A  bosom  decked  with  gold  ; 
I  gazed  upon  the  lovely  flower^ 

With  rapturous  delight, 
And  thought  its  charms  had  spell  of  power 

To  make  even  winter  bright. 

I  wished  that  autumn  rose  so  fair 

In  radiance  long  might  bloom, 
And  shed  through  the  surrounding  air 

Its  beaut}'  and  perfume. 
Vain  wish  !  for  on  its  ruddiness, 

Soon  fell  a  withering  blast ; 
It  drooped,  and  all  its  loveliness 

Died  ere  the  day  was  past ! 


154  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

So  pass  earth's  fairest  flowers  away, 

So  dies  the  parent's  joy  ; 
As  clouds  obscure  the  brightest  day, 

And  griefs  the  heart  annoy  ; 
But  there's  a  balm  for  souls  oppressed, 

A  hope  the  heart  to  stay ; 
A  bosom  where  the  head  ma}'  rest, 

While  tears  are  wiped  away. 

Thrice  happy  they  who  can  repose, 

In  calm  and  holy  trust, 
On  Him  who  wept  for  others'  woes, 

Who  raised  the  sleeping  dust ; 
Who  in  a  glorious  robe  of  white 

Arrays  the  blood-bought  soul, 
And  bids  it  rest  in  realms  of  light, 

While  endless  ages  roll ! 


LINES  FOR  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

We  love  to  see  the  flashing  light  the  polished  diamond  throws, 
To  breathe  the  odor  of  the  pink,  the  fragrance  of  the  rose  ; 
We  love  to  hear  the  pealing  tones  that  from  the  organ  roll, 
To  feel  the  dear  delight  that  flows  from  sympathy  of  soul ; 
But  there  are  purer,  nobler  joys,  in  store  for  human  kind, 
Those  truer  joys  we  prize  much  more,  the  treasures  of  the  mind. 
What  can  outvie  the  diamond's  blaze  ?  the  fragrant  rose  excel  ? 
The  "Morning  Star,"  or  "God  our  Sun"  and  "Lily  of  the  vale." 
Then  turn,  dear  girl,  an  upward  eye,  toward  that  dear   Light 

divine, 
And  like  the  Lily  of  the  vale,  in  lady  beauty  shine. 


itagmotft 


Mrs.  Pratt,  the  daughter  of  George  and  Mary  (Wallace)  Pratt,  was  born  at  Mont 
Vcrnon,  in  1811,  and  is  yet  living.  She  marrie'd  Rev.  D.  D.  Pratt,  a  Baptist  clergy 
man,  who  is  deceased. 


"Do  the}r  love  there  still?  for  no  voice  I  hear," 

Said  a  maid,  as  she  thought  of  her  childhood's  home, 

Of  the  rural  bower,  and  the  streamlet  clear, 
And  the  flowery  fields  where  she  used  to  roam ; 

And  she  sighed,  for  no  answering  echo  came 

To  tell  that  hers  was  a  cherished  name. 

"Do  they  love  there  still !"  in  that  ancient  hall 
Where  the  orient  sun  sheds  his  golden  light, 


ELI  AS  NASON.  1,55 


Where  the  moonbeams  played  on  the  painted  wall, 
And  the  brilliant  stars  decked  the  joyous  night? 
But  no  voice  replied,  for  the  tide  of  time 
Had  borne  the  loved  to  another  clime. 

"Do  they  love  there  still?"  where  the  3'oung  and  gay 
With  elastic  step  trod  the  mazy  dance, 

And  words  that  the  lips  might  never  say 
Spoke  to  the  heart  in  the  passing  glance  ? 

And  the  maiden  wept  when  a  stranger  tone 

Told  that  her  friends  were  gone — all  gone  ! 

"Do  they  love  there  still?"  where  at  early  morn 

They  meet  to  peruse  the  classic  page, 
To  cull  bright  gems  and  the  mind  adorn, 

And  in  high  pursuits  its  powers  engage? 
And  tones  that  the  maiden's  bosom  thrill 
Tell  of  a  love  that  is  cherished  still. 

"Yes,  they  love  there  still !"  and  the  golden  chain 
Has  wreathed  its  links  with  a  clasp  so  strong 

That  the  heart  which  its  pressure  would  not  retain 
Must  struggle  against  it  hard  and  long, 

Or,  parting  asunder  all  earthly  ties, 

By  heaven's  high  mandate  to  glory  rise. 

And  then,  O  then,  in  the  "better  land," 

Where  the  good  of  earth  shall  together  meet, 

May  all  who  compose  that  sister  band 
As  sainted  spirits  each  other  greet ; 

Then  what  bliss  divine  will  the  bosom  thrill, 

As  the  echo  rings,  "They  love  there  still !" 


Rev.  Elias  Nason,  son  of  Levi  and  Sarah  (Newton )Nason,  was  born  in  Wrentham 
Centre,  Mass.,  Apr.  21,  1811;  graduated  at  Brown  University  in  1835;  spent  nearly 
ten  years  as  a  teacher  in  Newburyport,  where  he  was  licensed  to  preach,  July  11, 
1839.  He  was  settled  as  a  pastor  at  Natick,May5,  1852,  at  Medford,  Mass.,  1858 
and  at  Exeter,  I860,  where  he  continued  until  May  29, 1865.  He  took  an  active  part 
in  the  war,  and  removed  to  North  Billerica,  Mass.,  in  1865.  He  spent  parts  of  the 
years  1874  and-5  in  visiting  the  various  cities  of  Europe,  and  resided  about  half  a 
year  at  Rome.  He  has  written  many  books,  among  others  "The  Life  of  Henry  Wil- 
son"an  intimate  friend,  "Life  of  Charles  Summer,"  and  a  "Gazetteer  of  the  State  of 
Massachusetts."  He  has  published  five  different  hymn  books,  and  has  lectured 
over  one  thousand  times  before  lyceums  and  similar  societies.  He  is  now  pastor  of 
the  Pawtucket  church  of  Lowell.  He  married  Miss  Mira  Anna  Bigelow  in  1837. 
She  is  a  native  of  New  Marlborough,  N.  H.  Two  of  their  sons  are  ministers. 


A  MORNING  HYMN. 

Through  the  shades  of  night,  O  my  God,  thou  hast  kept 
Watch  and  ward  o'er  my  bed,  and  I've  peacefully  slept ; 


156  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

In  health  now  arising,  I  hail  the  new  day, 

And  m}r  tribute  of  praise  to  Thee  gratefully  pay. 

Though  ruling  in  power  and  splendor  above, 
Thou  visitest  man  with  the  light  of  thy  love  ; 
Thou  openest  the  gates  of  the  East  that  the  sun, 
As  a  giant,  his  course  o'er  the  nations  may  run. 

But  j'et  by  the  cross  in  redemption  is  given 
Effulgence  more  bright  from  the  portals  of  heaven  ; 
And  with  myriads  adoring,  I  bend  to  confess 
The  Prince  thus  descending  his  people  to  bless. 

His  was  the  pity,  the  love  and  the  grace 

That  exhausted  the  chalice  our  sins  to  efface, 

And  through  Him,  0  my  God,  who  such  pangs  underwent, 

To  thee  this  petition  1  humbly  present : — 

O  feed  me  to-day  from  thy  bountiful  store, 
And  heavenward  incline  all  my  wishes  to  soar ; 
Be  near  me  when  tempted,  from  without  and  within, 
And  deliver  my  soul  from  the  empire  of  sin. 

Help  me  to  be  lowly,  forgiving  and  true, 

All  alive  to  the  work  that  m}"  hands  find  to  do  ; — 

With  radiance  celestial  my  dark  spirit  fill, 

And  make  every  thought  correspond  with  thy  will. 

v 

In  mercy  forgive  me  the  ills  I  have  done  ; 
My  transgressions  remit  in  the  name  of  th}-  Son  ; 
Keep,  O  keep  me  from  wandering  away  from  thy  fold, 
And  inscribe  my  poor  name  in  thy  record  of  gold. 

Then  peacefully  hour  after  hour  shall  roll  by, 
And  pursuing  my  course  under  light  from  on  high, 
Every  step  shall  still  bring  me,  where'er  I  may  roam, 
But  nearer  to  thee,  O  my  God,  and  my  Home  ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Ring,  O  bells,  from  tower  and  steeple  ! 
Wake  from  slumber,  O  ye  people  ! 
Christ  is  born  ;  our  consolator, 
King  of  kings  and  Mediator. 

Ring,  O  bells,  the  gladsome  stor}- ! 
Homage  to  the  Prince  of  glory  ! 
Christ  is  born  !    O,  bow  before  Him, 
All  ye  Kindreds,  and  adore  Him. 


ELIAS  NASON.  157 


Ring,  0  bells,  the  ro}ral  tidings, 
Bring,  O  men  your  richest  offerings  ! 
Christ  is  born  !    Desire  of  nations  ; 
Laud  Him,  angels,  of  all  stations. 

Ring,  O  bells,  this  world's  great  wonder  ! 
Hush,  O,  war,  thy  pealing  thunder ! 
Christ  is  born  ;  low  in  the  manger ; 
Hosts  of  heaven,  hail  the  stranger. 

Ring,  O  bells,  in  measured  cadence ; 
Eastern  Magi,  spread  your  incense  ; 
Christ  is  born,  ring  bells,  again, 
"To  God  be  glory,  peace  to  men !" 

"Ring,  O  bells,  all  music  blending 
Into  chimes  to  heaven  ascending, 
Christ  is  born  ;  ring  bells,  O  ring, 
"Salvation  to  the  new-born  Kino: !" 


JESUS  ONLY. 

Jesus  only  ;  when  the  morning 
Beams  upon  the  paths  I  tread  ; 

Jesus  only  ;  when  the  darkness 
Gathers  round  my  weary  head. 

Jesus  only  ;  when  the  billows 
Cold  and  sullen  o'er  me  roll ; 

Jesus  only  ;  when  the  tempest, 

Rends  the  tomb,  and  wakes  the  soul. 

Jesus  only  ;  when  the  judgment 
Boding  fears  my  heart  appall, 

Jesus  only  ;  when  the  wretched, 
On  the  rocks  and  mountains  call. 

Jesus  only  ;  when  adoring 

Saints  their  crowns  before  him  bring  ; 
Jesus  only  ;  I  will  joyous, 

Through  eternal  ages  sing. 


THE  POOR  MAN  AT  THE  GATE  OF  PARADISE.  A 

DREAM. 

A  poor  old  man  died  on  one  bitter  cold  day, 
And  directly  to  Paradise  wended  his  way ; 


158  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Saint  Peter  he  met, — 'tis  a  dream  I  relate, — 

With  his  great  shining  keys,  keeping  ward  at  the  gate. 

Now  while  standing  here,  with  the  Apostle  conversing, 
The  events  of  his  journey  to  heaven  rehearsing, 
He  sees  a  rich  townsman, — the  gate  is  ajar, — 
Slip  quietly  by  them,  and  in  through  the  bar. 

He  listens  ;  he  hears  peals  of  music  arise 
To  welcome  this  man  to  his  home  in  the  skies ; 
But  on  entering  himself,  though  bright  visions  fill 
His  fancy  with  rapture,  all  is  silent  and  still. 

uHow  is  this?"  turning  back  to  Saint  Peter,  his  guid;>, 
In  accents  of  wonder,  the  poor  man  then  cried  ; — 
"When  my  neighbor  went  in,  sweetest  music  I  heard, 
Why  is  not  the  same  honor  on  me  now  conferred? 

D'ye  keep  up  the  distinctions  here,  please  let  me  know, 
Twixt  the  rich  and  the  poor  that  we  had  down  below  ? 
"Not  at  all",  said  Saint  Peter,  "O  no,  not  at  all, — 
Just  as  brothers  we  live  in  this  banqueting  hall ; 

But  poor  folks  like  you,  I  am  happy  to  sa}', 
By  thousands  pass  through  the  gate  every  day ; 
About  once  in  a  j'ear  comes  a  rich  man  along, 
Then  all  Paradise  breaks  into  general  song !" 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER,  PHARAPHRASED. 

Be  hallowed,  our  Father  in  heaven,  thy  name  ; — 
Thy  kingdom  of  glory  let  all  tongues  proclaim ; 
Be  done  here  below,  thine  adorable  will, 
As  spirits  celestial  its  mandates  fulfil ! 

From  thy  bountiful  hand  b}*  which  all  men  are  fed, 
We  crave  for  this  day  our  allotment  of  bread  ; — 
For  sins  without  number,  O,  may  we  receive 
Thy  pardon,  as  we  others  freely  forgive. 

From  the  wiles  of  the  tempter  our  spirits  defend  ; 
Keep,  O  keep  us  from  perils  .that  ever  impend, 
And  the  kingdom,  the  power,  the  glory  be  given  ! 
To  thee  evermore,  our  dear  Father  in  heaven. 


THE  SMILE  OF  THE  KING. 

Mid  sorrows  and  dangers  that  darken  my  waj', 
As  onward  through  life's  tangled  mazes  I  stray, 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.  159 

I  turn  from  the  scenes  that  surround  me  and  sing ; — 
"There  is  peace,  O  my  soul,  in  the  smile  of  the  King !" 

When  o'er  the  lone  ocean  the  wild  surges  roll, 
And  tempests  tremendous  descend  from  the  pole, — 
Through  the  conflict  I  hear  the  sweet  harmon}'  spring ; — 
"There  is  peace,  O  my  Soul,  in  the  smile  of  the  King!" 

Unseen,  he  still  tenderly  leads  me  along 

In  ways  that  I  know  not,  and  gives  me  the  song, 

As  my  heart's  dearest  treasure  before  Him  I  bring ; — 

"There  is  peace,  O  my  Soul,  in  the  smile  of  the  King !" 

Inconstant  and  wayward,  I  grieve  that  I  am  ; 
But  hid  in  my  heart  is  the  power  of  the  Lamb  ; 
And  whate'er  be  the  anguish  the  echoes  still  ring ; — . 
"There  is  peace,  O  my  Soul,  in  the  smile  of  the  King !" 

And  O,  when  I  pass  through  the  shade  that  shall  close, 
In  silence  profound  o'er  these  brief  mortal  woes, 
Be  this  my  last  song,  to  my  God  as  I  cling ; — 
"There  is  peace,  O  my  Soul,  in  the  smile  of  the  King !" 

Then  rising  in  splendor,  the  hosts  to  behold, 
Who  sound  his  high  praises  on  viols  of  gold, — 
Exultant,  my  tongue  in  his  presence  shall  sing ; 
"There  is  peace,  0  my  Soul,  in  the  smile  of  the  King !" 


THE  BLUE  GENTIAN. 

A  lovely  blue  gentian,  Sweet  flower  of  the  wildwood, 
In  solitude  bending,  Of  heaven's  own  blue, 

Once  drew  my  attention,  What  dreams  of  my  childhood, 
As  summer  was  ending.  Concentre  in  you ! 

In  beauty  resplendent,  I  stooped  this  fair  flower 

It  bloomed  all  alone  ;  From  its  light  stem  to  sever, 

To  angels  attendant,  And  from  that  blissful  hour, 
Its  charms  onlv  known.  I  wear  it  forever? 


OTijarles  James 


Charles  J.  Fox  was  born  in  Antrim,  October  11,  1811.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1831,  and  afterwards  became  a  lawyer  in  Nashua.  He  died  Feb 
ruary  17, 1846.  A  tribute  to  his  memory  by  John  11.  Warland  is  found  elsewhere 
in  this  volume.  He  compiled  in  part  the  "Hew  Hampshire  Book  of  Prose  and 
Poetry." 


160  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  PROMISE. 

When  he  who  spake  as  never  man  hath  spoken, 
Came  to  Our  earth  to  elevate  and  bless, 

He  lifted  the  down-trodden  and  heart-broken, 
And  cheered  the  widow  and  the  fatherless. 

He  taught  the  glorious  truth,  "3-6  are  all  brothers !" 
That  love  and  justice  unto  all  are  due  ; 

That  in  life's  business  "ye  should  do  to  others 
Even  as  ye  would  that  they  should  do  to  you." 

Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  !  Earth's  groaning  masses, 
Enslaved  and  burdened  by  some  regal  line, 

Now  learn  that  God  hath  made  no  "better  classes" 
To  tyrannize  o'er  them  by  right  divine. 

"Our  Father !"  what  a  glorious  revelation, 

Linking  our  birth-right  with  the  infinite  whole  ; 

Bidding  man  live  as  fits  his  noble  station, 
Teaching  the  priceless  value  of  the  soul ! 

Blessed  be  God  for  this  sublime  ideal, 

Which  would  transform  this  earth  to  paradise  ! 

Blessed  are  they  who  strive  to  make  it  real, 
In  thought  and  life,  by  toil  and  sacrifice  ! 

Blessed  are  they  who,  with  a  strong  endeavor, 
And  faith  undoubting  and  true  Christian  heart, 

Seek  for  the  true,  the  right,  the  equal  ever, 
And  in  no  wrong  and  selfishness  have  part. 

And  there  are  signs  that  brighter  light  is  breaking, 
Through  the  thick  clouds  of  eighteen  hundred  years  ; 

That  love  and  truth  shall  in  new  power  be  waking, 
And  earth  be  gladdened  with  millennial  years. 

Man  in  God's  image  and  God's  temple  glorious 
With  all  his  upward  tendencies  we  hail, 

For  God  hath  said  that  love  shall  be  victorious, 
And  "truth  is  mighty  and  will  yet  prevail." 


Nelson 


John  N.  Moses,  a  brother  of  Thomas  P.  Moses,  was  born  In  Portsmouth,  Decem 
ber  29, 1811,  He  waa  a  printer,  and  gave  evidence  of  the  possession  of  poetical 
talent  of  a  high  order,  which  would  undoubtedly  have  made  him  distinguished 
but  for  his  early  death,  at  Fort  Foster,  Florida,  near  Tampa  Bay,  December  17, 
1837. 


GEOR OE  MA THER  CHAMPNEY.  \  6 1 

STANZAS. 

Vain  man  !  dare  ye  presume  to  be — 

All  sinful  thus — more  wise  than  God  ? 
More  mighty,  holy,  just  than  He 

Who  holds  the  eternal  judgment-rod? 
That  haughty  brow  all  crimsoned  o'er 

With  deep-felt  guilt  and  shame  must  be, 
And  that  proud  heart  must  learn  to  pour 

Its  gushings  of  humility  ! 

A  single  link  in  that  vast  chain 

Of  wisdom,  reaching  where  the  eye 
Of  mortal  strives  to  gaze  in  vain, 

Would  ye  subvert  God's  harmony? 
It  cannot  be  !  ye  may  not  scan 

What  angels  long  in  vain  to  see, 
Why,  in  his  dealings,  God  to  man 

Should  wrap  his  wand  in  mystery. 

O  be  content  that  he  has  spread 

The  hills  with  bounties,  fields  with  food  ; 
That  all  earth's  fruits  for  thee  are  shed, — 

Earth's  every  blessing  for  thy  good  :  * 

And  though  thy  heart  has  now  been  crushed 

While  basking  in  Hope's  sunny  ray, 
Peace  ! — let  thy  murmurings  be  hushed  : 

Shall  He  who  gave  not  take  away? 

He  who  is  infinite  in  love  ; 

Who  fills  the  earth  with  bliss  for  j'ou, 
And  spreads  that  glorious  arch  above 

To  cheer  thy  path  in  mercy  too, — 
A  hope  of  richer  bliss  hath  given 

Beyond  the  uncertain  bounds  of  time  ; 
And  hearts,  by  sorrow  worn  and  riven, 

Shall  find  a  balsam  in  that  clime  ! 


George  M.  Champney  was  born  in  New  Ipswich,  March  6,  1812.  At  the  age  of 
fourteen  years  he  went  to  Boston  and  was  employed  in  a  store.  After  remaining 
there  a  few  years  he  went  to  New  Jersey  and  attended  an  academy.  Subsequently 
he  engaged  in  mercantile  business  in  that  state.  He  returned  to  Boston  and 
settled  in  the  dry  goods  trade,  and  continued  there  in  business  forty  years,  making 
his  home  in  Woburn.  He  suffered  much  loss  of  property  by  the  great  flre  in  1872. 
His  death  occurred  January  4,  1882. 


LINES   TO   SOUHEGAN    RIVER. 

Quiet  Souhegan  !  thy  curling  waves 
Flow  through  the  meadows  green  ; 


162  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy  crystal  bed  and  daisied  banks 
In  placid  depths  are  seen. 

Come,  stand  upon  the  bridge  with  me 
That  spans  the  moving  tide  ; 

No  object  intercepts  the  view 
That  opens  far  and  wide. 

The  pebbled  road  comes  winding  down 
To  where  it  meets  the  stream  ; 

Its  rugged  path  then  mounts  the  hill 
Towards  sunlight's  earliest  beam. 

The  rude  stone  walls  that  bound  it  in, 
By  hard  worn  hands  were  laid, 

Moved  to  the  toil  by  honest  hearts 
That  heaven's  will  obeyed. 

Scattered  along  the  varied  banks 
That  hedge  the  travelled  way, 

The  moss-grown  stones  and  herbage  wild 
Their  roughest  charms  display. 

Now  gaze  we  on  thy  face,  fair  stream, 

As  up  the  vale  we  look  ; 
More  tranquil  waters  never  flowed, 

Or  bubbling  spring  forsook. 

How  gracefully  the  "Elbow"  curls 

Just  where  a  brook  unites 
Its  mingling  drops,  that  rippling  come 

Adown  from  wood}7  heights. 

Beyond,  those  alder's  bushy  ranks 
Skirt  thick  the  farther  side, 

And  form  a  shady,  quiet  haunt 
So  sweet  at  eventide. 

Onward  the  eye  pursues  its  glance 
To  where  the  forest  frowns 

Which  in  its  cool  and  dusky  groves 
The  gleaming  sunlight  drowns. 

Near  where  the  waters  meet  the  wood 

A  covert  nook  is  found, 
That  echoes  still  the  merry  laugh 

Of  voices  all  around. 

How  through  the  frame  the  pulses  thrill 
As  days  come  rushing  on, 


GEORGE  MATHER  CHAMPNET.  103 


And  the  ebbing  tides  of  memory  fill 
With  mirth  and  dance  and  song. 

The  boat  is  moored,  the  shore  is  gained, 

All  hearts  are  happy  now  ; 
The  mazy  dance  is  threaded  quick, 

And  pendant  branches  bow. 

With  sport  fatigued,  the  chowder  comes, 

Then  added  viands  grace 
The  rustic  board  :  the  toast  goes  round 

And  joy  fills  every  face. 

Again  the  merry  shout  goes  up : 

The  jocund  glee  is  heard, 
The  tangled  copse  that  spreads  around 

With  ga3rest  life  is  stirred. 

Gray  twilight  comes,  now  ply  the  oar 
And  homeward  move  the  boat, 

How  calmty  down  the  silver  tide 
The  freighted  bark  doth  float ! 

The  noise  of  rude-tongued  mirth  is  hushed, 

As  suits  the  evening  hour, 
And  mellow  voices  blending  sweet 

Some  vesper  music  pour. 

I  see  them  now  !  I  hear  their  tones 

Melting  on  memoes  ear, 
Although  the  softened  cadence  comes 

O'er  man}'  a  passing  year. 

Now  turn  we  down  the  flowing  stream 

How  stately  on  it  goes  ! 
Its  deep'ning  current  gathers  strength 

Till  o'er  the  "dam"  it  flows. 

Here  first  the  hand  of  art  has  thrown 

A  stonj-  barrier  o'er 
Thy  water's  bed !  here  first  is  heard 

Niagara's  mimic  roar. 

"Waterloom's"  wheels  with  busy  hum 

Are  moved  at  th\T  command, 
And  spindles  fly  with  rapid  whirl 

Guided  by  woman's  hand. 

Among  New  Hampshire's  mountain  streams 
This  boasts  the  primal  claim 


164  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Of  giving  power  at  man's  behest 
To  turn  a  spinning  frame. 

The  plunging  waters  now  move  on 

Dashing  from  rock  to  rock, 
Till  curbed  again  by  art's  bold  hand 

Repeat  the  thunder  shock. 

How  changed  the  scene  from  which  we  turned 
Where  banks  were  smooth  and  green, 

And  shading  bush  and  nodding  grass 
Were  mirrored  in  the  sheen. 

A  shelving  bluff  of  giddy  height 

Walls  up  the  river's  way, 
And  ledges  rough  and  woody  steeps 

Hold  timid  feet  at  bay. 

But  here  the  might  of  man  has  built 

A  bold  and  spanning  arch, 
Between  whose  butments  strong  and  high 

The  narrowed  waters  march. 

The  traveller  looks  with  awe  adown 

The  fissure  drear  and  wild  ; 
The  mother  hastes  with  fearful  steps 

When  passing  with  her  child. 

Flow  on  thou  stream  !  although  bej'ond 

My  vision's  farthest  ken  ; 
I'm  with  you  there  in  meadows  green 

By  wood  and  rocky  glen. 

Thy  many  windings  cluster  round 

The  childhood  of  my  heart, 
And  clinging  there  shall  never  cease 

Their  image  to  impart. 


Otijurcijill  ISrgant. 


Rev.  .1.  C.  Bryant  was  born  in  New  Boston,  April  8,  1812.  He  fitted  for  college 
at  Kimball  Union  Academy  and  graduated  at  Amherst  College  in  183(i,  and  subse 
quently  at  Andover  Theological  Seminary.  He  was  ordained  and  settled  as  pastor 
of  the  Congregational  church  In  Littleton,  Mass.,  in  1840.  In  1846  he  went  to  South 
Africa  as  a  missionary,  where  he  died  December  22,  1850. 


SABBATH  MORNING. 

Hail  delightful  Sabbath  morn  ! 
Brightest  hopes  of  thee  are  born  : 
Thankful  for  my  Father's  care, 
Turns  my  soul  to  Him  in  prayer. 


JAMES  CHURCHILL  BRYANT.  165 

Bounteous  Source  of  life  and  light, 
Thou  hast  kept  me  through  the  night ; 
Me  from  every  sin  defend, 
Till  these  holy  hours  shall  end. 

Keep  me,  Saviour,  near  thy  side, 
Kindly  for  ni}*  wants  provide  ; 
Purge  away  each  sinful  stain 
In  His  blood  for  sinners  slain. 

To  thy -courts  when  I  repair, 
Heavenl}'  Father,  meet  me  there  ; 
Pour  rich  blessing  on  my  soul, 
Make  my  wounded  spirit  whole. 

May  thine  earthly  sabbaths  prove 
Foretaste  sweet  of  rest  above, 
Bear  my  thoughts  from  earth  away, 
Guide  me  to  the  realms  of  day. 


IN  SICKNESS. 

Great  God,  I  bow  before  thy  power, 
Yet  still  thy  goodness  trust ; 

While  storms  of  sorrow  round  me  lower, 
And  press  me  to  the  dust. 

Ah  !  what  is  man,  frail,  dying  man, 
Though  in  thine  image  made  ; 

How  soon  he  measures  out  his  span, 
How  soon  in  death  is  laid. 

The  brilliant  hopes  that  year  by  j-ear 
On  youth's  bright  pathwaj-  bloom, 

In  death's  cold  shadows  disappear, 
And  lo,  an  open  tomb  ! 

Throbs  painfully  the  aching  heart, 

Tears  oft  bedim  the  eye  ; 
No  solace  can  the  earth  impart 

To  check  the  rising  sigh. 

Yet,  gracious  God,  to  thee  is  known 
Each  piercing  pang  of  grief, 

Thou  hearest  each  extorted  groan, 
And  thou  canst  give  relief. 

Around  the  couch  where  lone  I  lie, 
No  mother  may  attend 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


To  cheer  me  with  love's  beaming  eye, 
But  thou  art  still  my  friend. 

Far  from  the  scenes  of  early  years, 
Far  from  the  friends  I  love, 

Dreary  and  cold  the  world  appears, 
And  false  its  friendships  prove. 

But  cease,  my  soul,  nor  thus  complain, 
Soon  brighter  days  will  come  ; 

Thou  wilt  not  long  on  earth  remain 
For  earth  is  not  thy  home. 

There  is  a  land  of  peace  and  love  ; 

There  shall  the  wear}'  rest  : 
Arise,  secure  a  home  above 

And  be  forever  blest. 


Uenjamin 

B.  P.  Shillaber  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  July  12, 1812.  In  1829  he  commenced 
his  career  as  a  printer  in  the  office' of  the  PaHaaitm  in  Dover.  He  went  to  Boston 
in  1835,  and  soon  after  made  a  voyage  to  Demarara  for  his  health,  having  had  an 
attack  of  bleeding  at  the  lungs.  There  he  worked  on  the  Hoyal  Gazette  for  twenty 
months.  Returning  home  in  18.38,  he  became  connected  with  the  Boston  Pout,  when- 
he  worked  upon  the  case.  In  1847  he  first  produced  the  Partington  Sayings  and 
commenced  his  poetical  career  about  that  time.  In  1850  he  left  the  Post,  and,  in 
conjunction  with  two  other  men,  started  the  Carpet  Bag,  a  humorous  paper,  which 
enjoyed  an  existence  of  two  years,  and  was  withdrawn  to  make  room  for  more 
successful  journals.  He  returned  to  the  Post  in  1852  as  local  reporter.  In  1856  he 
connected  himself  with  the  Saturday  Evening  Gazette.  About  that  time  he  began 
lecturing.  He  also  produced  a  vigorous  poem,  "The  Press,"  which  he  delivered  in 
many  places,  everywhere  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  audience.  He  lectured  some 
what  extensively  through  the  country  for  several  years,  with  success.  But  his 
heart  was  in  the  printing  office,  and  he  abandoned  the  rostrum.  Mr.  Shillaber  has 
be«n  author  of  several  volumes  which  have  had  a  wide  circulation:  "Rhymes  with 
R'.'n son  and  Without;"  "The  Life  and  Sayings  of  Mrs.  Partington;"  "Knitting 
Work,  a  book  of  Many  Fancies;"  "Partingtonian  Patchwork;''  "Lines  in  Pk-asaiil 
Places;"  and  the  "The  Partington  Series  of  boys' books."  In  1871  he  delivered 
a  poem  before  the  literary  societies  of  Dartmouth  College,  and  was  made  honorary 
member  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  that  college.  He  resides  in  Chelsea,  Mass. 


A  COUNTRY   SUMMER   SUNDAY. 

Sweet  season  of  repose  !  th}"  influence  blest 
Pervades  creation  with  a  calm  delight ; 

All  nature  claims  the  bounty  of  thy  rest, 
And  care  that  held  dominion  takes  its  flight. 

No  sounds  discordant  lacerate  the  ear — 

In  tranquil  beauty  lies  the  landscape  wide  ;  — 

"To  Praise  !  To  Praise  !"  our  inmost  spirits  hear, 
As  if  an  angel  spake,  from  every  side. 


BENJAMIN  PENH  A  LLOW  SB ILL  AB  EE,  167 

The  sun,  abroad,  o'er  meadow,  wood  and  stream, 
A  brighter,  holier  radiance  seems  to  fling ; 

The  birds  inspired  with  sweeter  music  seem, 
And  breathless  breezes  wait  to  hear  them  sing. 

Anon,  awakening  with  a  murmuring  note, 
The  soft  winds  harp  on  instrumental  trees, 

While  perfumes  from  a  myriad  blossoms  float, 
Borne  on  the  pinions  of  the  joyous  breeze. 

The  cattle  in  the  field,  released  from  stall, 

Graze  gratefully  upon  the  grasses  cool, 
Where  the  refreshing  shadows  darkly  fall, 

Or  stand  as  studying  in  some  pleasant  pool. 

The  rustling  corn  in  tasseled  pride  outflings 
Its  banners  in  the  gleaming  sun  to  dance, 

And  every  spire  in  golden  triumph  swings 
In  plenitude  of  rich  luxuriance. 

The  farmer  listless  leans  upon  the  wall, 

And  looks  with  calm  contentment  o'er  his  fields, 

While  glad  emotions  all  his  heart  enthral, 
And  thankfulness  that  here  its  tribute  yields. 

But  hark  !  amid  the  charms  that  rest  around, 
Comes  to  our  ears  the  warning  sabbath-bell ; 

The  listening  hills  return  the  sacred  sound, 
Which  wakens  echoes  in  the  vales  that  dwell. 

And  now,  sedately  from  each  cottage  home, 

The  village  fathers,  sabbathly  arrayed, 
And  village  mothers,  dignifiedl}'  come, 

And  village  maidens  with  their  "best"  displayed  ; 

The  dusty  chaise  rolls  down  the  dusty  hill, 

A  relic  saved  from  generations  past, 
A  pride  of  station  clinging  to  it  still, 

And  deferential  looks  are  on  it  cast ! 

And  loving  pairs  lag  loiteringly  along 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  elm  trees,  tall, 

And  themes  are  there  for  story  or  for  song 
Poured  out  'neath.many  a  faded  parasol. 

All  take  the  path  to  where,  each  holy  day, 
The  reverend  pastor  doth  his  accents  raise, 

And  strives  to  draw  his  hearers'  minds  away, 
By  urgings  gentle,  to  a  godly  praise  ; 


168  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

To  where  the  anthem  unassisted  springs, 
And  melody  appalled  turns  pale  to  hear, 

Gathering  for  flight  her  silver-plumaged  wings, 
To  seek  elsewhere  some  more  harmonious  sphere  ! 

Yet  much  of  soul  dwells  in  the  simple  song, 
Where  fervor  takes  the  place  of  studied  art, 

As  on  the  air  it  pours  itself  along, 

Freighted  with  ieeling  of  the  fervent  heart. 

Methinks  that  God  looks  more  benignly  down 
Upon  the  day  His  lovingness  hath  lent, 

When,  amid  scenes  like  this  its  hours  we  crown 
By  offerings  with  joy  and  homage  blent. 

Ascetic  gloom  should  find  no  biding  place 
To  cloud  the  current  of  our  bosom's  rest ; 

The  sabbath  sun  with  joy  should  gild  the  face, 
As  in  the  heart  its  presence  is  confest. 


PISCATAQUA. 

My  heart  and  soul  go  out  to  thee,  blue  stream, 
Sparkling  with  pleasant  memories  of  yore, — 
Of  days  when  )-outh  flowed  on,  as  flows  a  dream, 
As  careless  as  thy  wave  that  kissed  the  shore, 
Unheeding,  and  demanding  nothing  more 
Than  thy  fraternity  and  kindred  joy, 
Mid  scenes  of  loveliness  then  gloated  o'er 
With  the  fond  admiration  of  the  boy, 
Which  knew  no  limitation,  knew  no  base  alloy. 

Thou  art  still  young  and  fair,  Piscataqua, 
Thy  voice  as  sweet  and  tuneful  to  my  ear 
As  when,  in  early  boyhood's  holiday, 
It  gave  me  fervent  happiness  to  hear : 
M}"  neighbor,  playmate  and  companion  dear, 
Sportive  and  wild  with  turbulent  unrest, 
That  gave  no  ripple  of  obtrusive  fear 
To  check  the  cheerful  current  of  my  breast, 
When  held  within  thine  arms  or  by  thy  side  at  rest. 

Thou  speakst  of  those,  who  in  the  vortex  lost 
Of  life's  endeavor,  long  have  lain  to  sleep, 
Or  those  who  are  upon  time's  billows  tost, 
For  whose  returning  vainly  watch  we  keep  ; 
Reminders  rise,  like  phantoms,  from  thy  deep, 
Of  boyish  striving,  with  abandon  free 


BENJAMIN  PENEALLOW  SH1LLABER.  169 

As  thine  own  sparkling  billows,  that  did  leap 
In  the  glad  sunshine,  with  exuberant  glee, 
And  thrilled  me  with  the  thought  that  I  should  sometime  be. 

Oh,  rushing  river,  fierce,  resistless,  strong  ! — 
Staying  no  moment  welcome  to  extend 
To  him  who's  loved  and  treasured  thee  so  long 
With  more  than  the  affection  of  a  friend  ; 
But  yet  thou  dost  thy  dimpling  eddies  send, 
That,  swirling  at  my  feet,  smile  back  the  sun, 
Loitering  where  shore  and  water  sweetly  blend, 
While  on  thy  mission  thou  keepst  sternly  on, 
Turning  aside  for  naught  until  the  goal  is  won. 

Yon  fisher's  boat,  that  at  her  killock  swings, 
Speaks  to  my  consciousness  most  palpably 
How  near  the  spectacle  remembrance  brings 
Of  what  was  once  a  rare  delight  to  me  ; 
Can  that  be  mine,  the  form  which  there  I  see 
In  3'outh's  habiliments,  his  sinkered  line 
Dropt  neath  the  tide  to  catch  what  there  may  be 
That  to  his  near  acquaintance  doth  incline? 
See  there,  upon  his  hook,  the  struggling  victim  shine  ! 

Piscataqua !  no  better  wish  I'd  have, 
When  life  was  j'oung,  than  thus  to  idly  swing 
Upon  the  buoyant  bosom  of  thy  wave, 
And  o'er  the  side  my  line  seductive  fling : 
To  hear  the  plover  flit  on  hasty  wing, 
To  mark  the  clouds  reflected  on  thy  stream, 
To  catch  glad  voices  which  the  airs  did  bring 
From  the  far  shore,  lit  by  the  sun's  bright  beam, 
And  swinging,  listening,  loafing — fish  and  fondly  dream. 

How  far,  Piscataqua,  thy  shores  expand, 
With  beauties  manifold  on  every  side  ! 
And  all  the  loyal  glories  of  the  land 
Smile  in  the  mirror  of  thy  glass}'  tide. 
There  Agamenticus,  in  solemn  pride, 
Lifts  his  grand  dome  above  the  distant  pines, 
There  groves  sweep  downward  to  thy  loving  side, 
And  fair  Cocheco  in  the  distance  twines, 
Amid  the  winding  banks,  till  with  thee  she  combines. 

The  curving  shore,  the  orchard  and  the  field 

Yet  hold  their  places,  and  the  river  road 

Winds  through  3*011  village,  half  by  trees  concealed, 

Where  peace  has  its  beneficent  abode  ; 


1 70  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Bej-ond,  the  white  church,  on  the  upland  showed, 
Lifts  its  fair  turret,  and  each  sylvan  nook 
Glows  in  the  landscape  as  it  e'er  has  glowed 
Since  memory  its  fond  departure  took, 
To  dwell  upon  the  past  as  'twere  an  open  book. 

Unchanged,  unchanging,  shore  and  rock  and  wave 
But  I,  alas  !  what  changes  dwell  in  me, 
As  here  I  sit,  where  youth's  bright  seasons  gave 
Their  choicest  keepsakes  to  my  custody ! 
Nor  faithless  I,  though  my  dim  ej-es  may  see 
But  faintly  what  is  in  my  heart  retained, 
With  rare  distinctness  of  that  by-gone  da}', 
Which  its  beatitudes  about  me  rained, 
Within  that  temple  new,  by  care  yet  unprofaned. 

Farewell,  bright  stream  !  my  ej'es  may  ne'er  again 
Behold  thy  beauties,  but  I  bear  from  thee 
A  love  renewed,  which,  like  some  heavenly  strain 
Amid  earth's  discords,  will  give  ecstasy 
In  hours  remaining  of  the  yet  to  be, 
And  I  shall  fancy  often  that  I  hear 
Thy  voice,  as  here  of  late  it  greeted  me, 
Speaking  in  parting  tones  of  love  and  cheer, 
And  giving  glaclsomeness  unto  my  failing  ear. 
Newington  on  Piscataqua,  Aug.  31,  1879. 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE. 

John  Wentworth,  Royal  Governor,  the  last 
That  in  New  Hampshire  bore  vice-regal  sway, 
Held  court  at  Wolfeborough,  by  a  lake,  remote 
From  care  of  office,  then  made  onerous 
By  the  fierce  restlessness  of  those  he  ruled, 
Who  caught  the  living  spirit  of  the  hour 
And  threatened  in  the  mood  of  discontent. 
Portsmouth  was  turbulent,  although  respect 
Checked  violence  'gainst  harm  to  genial  John, 
For  all  owned  kindly  fealty  to  him, 
Although  detesting  his  authority. 
He  was  of  Boston  lineage  and  Harvard  brand, 
A  generous,  courtly,  cultivated  man, 
Of  tastes  refined,  with  every  wish  awake 
The  people  of  his  care  to  benefit. 
Broad  roads  he  builded  and  new  ways  devised 
To  give  New  Hampshire  her  predestined  rank ; 
And  Dartmouth  felt  the  kindness  of  his  heart 


BENJAMIN  PENH  ALLOW  SIllLLABEIt.  171 

In  man}-  offices  of  generous  care. 

But  "Royal  Governor!"  his  title,  chafed 

The  temper  of  his  people,  and  he  flew 

To  this,  his  sylvan  realm,  for  peace  and  rest. 

He  haply  found  it,  did  his  buxom  darne, — 

Widow  of  Atkinson,  in  ten  days  wed, 

Post  nubila  at  Atkinson's  demise, 

(What  time,  in  going  from  the  nuptial  rites, 

Did  Arthur  Brown,  the  rector,  fall  down  stairs, 

And,  tributary  to  the  season,  break  an  arm,)  — 

Admit  of  peace  domestic,  breach  of  which 

Were  worse  than  din  of  direst  politics. 

His  stately  manse  stood  smiling  by  the  shore, 

A  pile  of  goodly  station,  since  destined 

By  fire,  which  licked  it  to  its  cellar  walls. 

Broad  avenues  connected  with  the  road, 

O'erarched  by  sturdy  trees,  while,  back  of  all, 

And  far  on  every  side,  stretched  hill  o'er  hill, 

Giving  incentive  to  the  lively  chase, 

Where  game  abounded  and  adventure  becked 

The  daring  huntsman  to  his  best  essay, 

A  hospitable,  cheerful  home  it  was. 

Amenities  of  old-time  neighborhood 

Existed  thereabout  without  a  check, 

And  one  could  scarcely  dream  the  cloud  suspent 

So  soon  to  merge  the  land  in  hostile  flood  ! 

'Twas  springtime,  and  the  glory  of  the  year 

WTas  seen  on  verdant  upland,  vale  and  mead. 

When  murmurs  came,  at  first,  of  Lexington, 

And  the  bold  stand  the  yeomanry  had  made 

'Gainst  that  prerogative  which  Wentworth  held, 

And  then  the  full-toned  clarion's  fearful  breath 

Proclaiming  that  the  hour  of  strife  had  come  ! 

The  land  was  rising,  kingly  rule  was  broke, 

And  gloomy  e}'es  were  bent  on  courtly  John, 

Though  well  content  that  he  should  e'er  remain, 

Could  he  of  his  commission  be  divest. 

Then  came  the  secret  order  to  depart. 

The  Governor,  too  far  from  Barclay's  ships, 

Packed  bag  and  baggage  for  a  speedy  flight. 

The  coach  of  state,  rolled  to  the  mansion  door, 

Hid  by  the  night,  received  a  weighty  load  ; 

Gay  Lady  Wentworth  and  the  precious  plate, 

With  its  armorial  bearing,  and  such  cash 

As  then  in  argent  sheen  the  coffers  lined, 

The  Governor  the  last,  who  backed  himself, 


172  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

In  statel}-  silence,  by  my  lady's  side. 

Mount  quickly,  coachman  !  Footman,  take  }'our  place  ! 

On  rolls  the  coach  in  cumbrous  tardiness, 

And  from  the  window  Wentworth  looks  his  last 

On  his  broad  acres,  with  a  painful  sigh, 

While  Lady  Wentworth  dreams  of  ball  and  rout 

'Neath  better  auspices  and  loyal  skies. 

But  heavy  grew  the  way,  the  horses  strove 

And  foamed  with  wearying  efforts  to  advance, 

Until,  quite  failing,  the}-  no  effort  made. 

The  treasure  must  be  left,  or  else  the  dame, 

Its  half  equivalent — forbid  the  thought ! — 

And  there  beneath  the  solemn  midnight  stars 

The  earth  received  in  trust  the  precious  store. 

No  more  delay.     The  harborage  was  gained. 

In  Portsmouth,  safe  beneath  the  roya.1  guns, 

Did  Wentworth  tarry  till  rebellion  took 

Such  sturdy  presence  that  it  was  not  safe 

For  royal  governor  to  linger  there  ; 

And  so  he  passed  forever  from  the  scene. 

He  ne'er  regained  the  treasure  hid  in  earth. 

And  no  man  knoweth  whereabouts  'twas  hid. 

The  path  he  went,  traditional  alone, 

Affords  no  clew  to  its  dark  resting-place, 

Though  many  seekers  have  essayed  the  task 

— Running  down  through  the  century  of  years — 

Of  finding  the  so-much-desired  prize. 

And  even  now,  at  times,  dim  lights  are  seen 

At  night,  when  honest  folks  should  be  in  bed, 

Dancing  about  the  meadow  and  the  wood, 

In  hands  of  seekers  for  the  buried  pelf, 

Led  on  by  those  who  claim  that  they  can  see 

Through  all  the  Histories  of  heaven  and  earth. 

The  earth  is  honeycombed  with  punctures  made 

By  prodding  iron  bars,  but  over  all 

A  monumental  disappointment  reigns. 

Perhaps  John  Wentworth  guards  the  spot  himself, 

Not  yet  selected  his  adopted  heir. 


ftteldjer 

Woodbury  M.  Fernald  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  Mar.  21, 1813.  He  was  educated 
in  the  schoolsof  his  native  place.  He  became  a  niinisterof  the  I'nivcrsalist  denomi 
nation,  and  began  preaching  in  Nashua, in  1835.  He  subsequently  preached  accept 
ably  in  Springfield,  Newburyport,  and  Stoneham,  Mass.  He  removed  to  Boston  in 
1845  and  was  there  settled  as  a  minister.  Soon  after  he  became  a  Swedenborgian, 
and  received  a  call  to  the  New  Church  Society  in  New  York  where  he  remained  a 
year.  He  preached  also  in  Chicago  and  in  Laporte,  Ind.,  and  in  other  western  cities. 
He  returned  to  Boston  In  1870,  where  he  remained  until  his  death,  Dec.  10, 1873. 


WOODB URY  MELCHER  FERNALD.  \  73 

MY  DAUGHTER'S  HOME. 

Written  while  she  Is  away  from  It,  Aug.  10, 1873. 

While  travellers  roam  abroad  to  find 
The  rustic  life  of  needful  change, 

And  linger  where  they  roam  ; 
Lo  !  unto  deeper  joys  inclined, 
Through  feeling's  realm  and  fancy's  range, 

I  sing  my  daughter's  home  ! 

This  teeming  field  of  living  green, 
Sloping  so  gently  from  my  feet ; 

The  broad  expanse  beyond 
Of  lengthened  woods,  with  rifts  between, 
Where  other  homes  the  vision  greet, 

Linked  in  the  social  bond  ; 

The  church's  spire,  the  sacred  throng 
Of  birds  mid  Summer's  golden  sheen  ; — 

Ah  !  what  a  glory's  here  ! 
'Tis  for  no  distant  scenes  I  long, 
In  humble  thankfulness,  I  ween, 

The  blessings  still  are  near ! 

I  travel  not  o'er  mountain  heights, 
I  see  no  crystal  cascades  run, 

No  river's  limpid  stream  ; 
But  grander  views  and  higher  lights, 
Beam  from  my  soul's  un setting  sun, 

To  gild  my  waking  dream. 

Daughter,  I  tread  thy  home-like  halls, 
I  walk  around  this  lovely  spot, 

Sacred  to  thee  and  thine  ;          . 
No  gloom  upon  my  spirit  palls, 
The  cares  of  life  are  all  forgot, 

And  heaven  itself  doth  shine. 

Each  room,  each  dear  familiar  thing, 
Or  work  of  art,  or  tree,  or  flower, 

Seems  filled  with  silent  life. 
The  mute  piano — does  it  bring 
No  secret  song  to  calm  the  hour, 

And  free  the  soul  from  strife? 

The  spacious  parlor's  cheerful  glow, 

The  chamber's  sweet  memorial  air, 

All  things  within  my  reach, — 


174  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  classic  library's  rich  flow 
Of  thought  and  beauty  everywhere, 
Invite  to  silent  speech. 

Spirits  invisible  here  come 

To  quicken  every  living  book,  % 

And  fill  the  heart  with  peace  ; 
And  thus  I  roam  through  thy  dear  home, 
Daughter  of  love — the  while  I  look 

To  thy  sweet  self  s  release. 

Away — away  !  the  hills  among, 
Mid  laughing  waters'  grateful  sound, 

For  health,  for  life,  for  cheer ; 
While,  sweet  as  poet  ever  sung, 
Or  happ}"  elf  has  ever  found, 

Thy  home  awaits  thee  here  ! 


A  VISION  OF  THE  ETERNAL  GLORY. 

0  God  of  gkny  !  when  with  03-6  uplifted, 
Eye  of  the  soul  in  visioned  wonder  clear ; 

And  when  by  thine  eternal  spirit  gifted, 
What  deep  revealings  to  the  soul  appear  ! 

Nature  recedes  ;  and  in  the  expanse  eternal, 
Spreading  and  opening  to  my  raptured  sight, 

1  see  the  hosts  of  God,  the  heights  supernal, 

The  church  triumphant  crowned  in  heaven's  own  light. 

Ah  !  there  are  they  who,  once  among  the  lowly, 
Erst  trod  the  paths  of  patient  virtue  here  ; 

And  there  are  they  who,  in  thy  presence  holy, 
Trembled  for  sin,  but  knew  no  other  fear : 

Prophets,  reformers, — they  who,  God  revering. 
Battled  with  hoary  wrong  and  ancient  might ; 

Behold  them  now  in  triumph  re-appearing 
On  all  the  hills  of  God,  in  glory  bright ! 

In  deepening  vision,  flames  a  light  before  them, 
Where  a  long  train  of  martyrs  rise  to  view  ; 

And,  lo!  a  central  figure  bending  o'er  them, — 
The  dear  Redeemer  crowning  them  anew. 

Victors  and  heroes  all,  I  see  them  waving 
'Triumphant  palms,  in  robes  of  purest  white  : 

No  more  the  terrors  of  the  conflict  braving, 

Peace  is  their  lot,  and  heaven  their  high  delight. 


WILLIAM  B.  MARSH.  175 


\Vm.  B.  Marsh,  was  born  In  Exeter,  in  1813.  He  commenced  the  business  of 
life  as  a  printer  in  Portsmouth.  He  went  to  New  York  and  worked  at  his  trade 
two  years.  He  started  the  New  Bedford  Register,  which  he  edited  for  some  time. 
In  1841,  he  became  editor  of  the  Brooklyn  N.  Y.  Eagle.  He  was  esteemed  for  his 
abilities  as  a  writer,  and  for  the  many  virtues  which  adorned  his  character.  He 
died  in  Brooklyn  in  1846. 


THE  BRIGHT  SPIRIT  LAND. 

The  bright  Spirit  Land  !  0  where  doth  it  lie  ! 
In  the  untold  depths  of  the  glorious  sky, 
Where  the  clouds  are  all  tinged  with  a  roseate  hue, 
And  the  stars  ever  float  in  a  sea  of  blue — 
Is  it  there,  the  bright  Spirit  Land  ? 

And  do  flowerets  breathe  on  the  passing  gale, 
And  beings  celestial  their  odors  inhale, 
While  golden  winged  birds  flit  the  bowers  among, 
And  gladden  the  air  with  their  joyous  song  ? 
Do  broad  rivers  sweep  with  resistless  tide, 
And  whispering  rills  through  the  deep  valleys  glide  ; 
Do  green  forests  wave,  and  huge  mountains  rise 
Till  their  snow-covered  peaks  seem  to  blend  with  the  skies, 
And  the  many-toned  voices  of  Nature. combined, 
Come  like  angels  of  peace  to  the  care-stricken  mind — 
Is  it  thus  in  the  bright  Spirit  Land  ? 

Or  is  it  amid  the  ocean  of  caVes, 
Where  mariners  sleep  in  their  coral  graves, 
As  the  angry  wind  howls,  and  the  surge  beats  high, 
And  the  storm-spirit  chants  the  lullaby  ! 
Is  it  there,  where  the  water-nj'mph  ever  is  seen, 
As  she  waves  in  the  caverns  her  tresses  green, 
Or  marks  the  wild  billows  rise  and  fall 
As  she  lightly  trips  through  the  sparry  hall — 
Is  it  there,  that  bright  Spirit  Laud? 

Alas  !  who  shall  fathom  His  ways,  most  high? 

Whose  throne  is  revealed  to  no  mortal  eye  ; 

Or  lift  the  dim  veil  and  in  rapture  tell 

The  pilgrim  of  earth  where  his  spirit  shall  dwell, 

When,  freed  from  its  cumbersome  load  of  clay, 

It  shall  soar  to  the  regions  of  endless  day  ; 

Or  whether  amid  the  bright  lamps  of  heaven, 

That  shine  o'er  our  heads  in  the  silent  even  ; 

Or  the  nobler  orbs  that  in  grandeur  roll, 

Proclaiming  His  glory  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Or  in  far  off  climes,  where  no  mortal  hath  trod  ; 


176  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  spirit  shall  live  in  the  presence  of  God. 
There  the  loved  and  the  lost  of  this  earth  shall  be  found, 
And  heaven's  high  arch  with  their  praises  resound, 
As  they  join  their  rapt  hearts  and  in  gratitude  sing 
Loud  pa-ans  of  joy  to  their  Saviour  and  King. 
There  sin  shall  be  finished  and  tears  cease  to  flow, 
And  sorrow  and  parting  no  more  shall  we  know, 
But  with  prophets,  and  priests,  and  the  martyrs  of  old, 
Rejoice  evermore  as  new  glories  unfold 
From  the  God  of  our  being — O,  hasten  the  rest 
Of  Eternity's  }"ear  'mong  the  ransomed  and  blest ; 
I  would  fly  to  that  bright  Spirit  Land. 


ISjra  IHastman 


Rev.  E.  E.  Adams  was  born  in  Concord,  August  29,  1813  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1836.  lie  was  ordained  to  preacli  in  the  autumn  of  1839  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Am.  Seamen's  Friend  Society,  and  went  as  Chaplain  to  Ameri 
can  seamen  at  St.  Petersburg,  Russia,  and  subsequently  to  Havre,  France.  In 
1854  he  was  pastor  of  Pearl  Street  Church,  Nashua,  and  in  1860,  organized  a  church 
In  Philadelphia,  and  caused  to  be  built  the  North  Broad  street  church,  in  that  city, 
•where  he  preached  for  several  years.  His  health  failing,  he  was  appointed  Profes 
sor  of  Sacred  Rhetoric  in  Lincoln  University,  at  Oxford,  Pa.,  where  he  died  In 
1872.  He  received  the  title  of  I).  D.,  from  Dartmouth  College.  Ilia  wife,  who  sur 
vives  him,  was  Miss  Frances  Stevens,  a  native  of  Newport. 


STEPPING  WITH  THE   STARS. 

The  coiled  elastic  spring  of  steel 

Imprisoned  in  its  brazen  bars, 
Moving  each  ruby-balanced  wheel 

Measures  its  motion  with  the  stars  ; 

The  heart's  low  pulse,  and  firmer  beat, 
The  throbbing  of  the  burdened  brain, 

The  music  of  a  million  feet 

On  hill-top  and  in  grassy  plain  ; 

The  sea's  majestic  ebb  and  flow, 

The  ripple  on  the  tender  rill, 
The  gentle  falling  of  the  snow, 

The  bird-note  and  the  viol's  trill ; 

"With  these,  and  in  the  march  of  thought 
'Mid  passions  ripened  into  wars, 

'Mid  the  many  things  which  time  has  wrought 
Our  life  is  stepping  with  the  stars ! 

It  is  not  peace  that  reigns  alone 
In  those  stupendous  orbs  of  fire, 

But  rent  and  scarred  from  zone  to  zone 
They  melt,  and  crumble,  and  expire. 


EZRA  EASTMAN  ADAMS. 


Nay,  discord  is  but  harmony 

Which  mortals  do  not  understand, 

The  tear,  the  laughter  and  the  sigh 
Touch  in  one  note  the  immortal  strand. 

A  rhythm  pervades  the  universe, 

All  things  to  one  grand  measure  march ; 

The  words  and  letters  of  our  verse 
Are  worlds  in  3"onder  jeweled  arch  ! 

We  rotate  in  our  little  cell 

And  touch  each  other  through  the  bars, 
But  God  has  ordered  all  things  well, 

He  keeps  us  stepping  with  the  stars. 

And  from  our  grander  height  we  see 
Creation  groaning  'neath  its  bars, 

And  our  own  lives  in  turn  to  be 

Goals  for  the  stoppings  of  the  stars. 


I  MOVE  INTO  THE  LIGHT. 

Out  of  the  shadows  that  shroud  the  soul, 
Out  of  the  seas  where  the  sad  waves  roll, 
Far  from  the  whirl  of  each  mundane  pole, 
"I  move  into  the  light." 


Out  oi  the  region  of  cloud 
Out  of  the  cares  that  oppress  the  brain, 
Out  of  the  body  of  sin  and  pain, 
"I  move  into  the  light." 

Out  of  the  struggles  of  Church  and  State, 
Out  of  the  empire  of  pride  and  hate, 
Up  through  the  beautiful  sapphire  gate, 
"I  move  into  the  light  !" 

Beyond  the  noise  of  creation's  jars, 
Higher  than  all  the  worlds  and  stars, 
Higher  than  limits  of  reason's  bars, 
"I  move  into  the  light." 

We  follow  after  to  those  high  spheres  ; 
Notes  of  thy  rapture  fall  on  our  ears  ; 
Out  of  our  darkness  our  sins  and  our  fears, 
"We  move  into  the  light." 


1 78  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

GROWING  OLD. 

I  cannot  labor  as  of  yore, 

My  hands  are  heav}*,  pulses  slow ; 

The  fires  that  warmed  me  at  two  score 
Now  smoulder  where  they  used  to  glow. 

I've  lost  the  fervor  of  desire, 
The  sense  of  being  full  and  free  ; 

No  longer  do  my  thoughts  aspire 
To  what  I  may  not  know  and  be. 

I've  lost  my  sympathy  with  man, 
The  low  ambitions,  boasted  deeds 

Which  fill  his  sublunary  span, 
His  schemes  of  empire  and  his  creeds. 

I've  lost  the  faith  that  once  reposed 
In  human  promise,  purpose,  power, 

I  gaze — and  lo,  the  scene  is  closed 
The  fruitless  vision  of  an  hour. 

Nor  is  my  faith  in  things  unseen 

Less  potent  than  in  manhood's  prime, 

Though  oft  the  tempter  comes  between 
My  hopes  of  heaven  and  joys  of  time. 

Waiting  and  watching  still  I  stand 
Upon  the  calm  and  solemn  shore, 

And  look  into  the  promised  land 
Till  shining  ones  shall  take  me  o'er. 


WHAT  MAY  WE  CARRY  TO  THE  VAST  FOREVER. 

What  may  we  carry  to  the  Vast  Forever ! 

The  mystic  stair 
Admits  not  gold,  nor  whatsoever 

In  pomp  and  pride  we  wear, — 

These  pass  not  there. 

Our  friends  we  may  not  take  within  the  Portal ; 

Nor  books,  nor  art, 
Unto  the  glorious  life  immortal ; 

Nor  idols  of  the  heart, — 

From  these  we  part. 

Nor  may  we  carry  to  the  home  eternal 
Our  boasted  creeds ; 


EDWARD  D.  BOTLSTON.  179 

These  drop  and  disappear  as  blossoms  vernal ; 
And,  wanting  faith,  our  deeds 
Are  poor  as  weeds. 

But  to  the  realm  of  light  and  beauty 

Shall  with  us  go 
A  hoi}*  love  of  duty, — 

Whate'er  we  feel  and  know 

Of  God  below. 

Our  character  and  conscience  shall  attend  us ; 

The  genial  flow, 
Of  sympathizing  hearts,  and  sense  stupendous 

Of  happiness  or  woe 

Shall  with  us  go. 

For  Charity's  fair  form  is  ever  parted 

The  pearly  door ; 
For  all  the  sanctified  and  holy  hearted 

Is  spread  the  golden  floor — 

Forever  more ! 


23.  ISogteton. 


Edward  D.  Boylston,  (Son  of  Richard,  grandson  of  Edward,  of  Springfield,  Mass. ) 
was  born  in  Amherst,  January  26, 1814.  He  was  educated  at  Franceetown  and  Der- 
ry  academies,  and  he  served  an  apprenticeship  to  the  printing  business  with  his 
father,  in  the  office  of  the  Farmery'  Cabinet.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  entered 
upon  a  course  of  study  preparatory  to  the  gospel  ministry,  spending  two  years  at 
New  Ipswich  academy  and  one  at  Gilmanton  Theological  Seminary,  when  from 
failure  of  health  he  relinquished  his  intentions  and  became  associated  with  his  fath 
er  as  junior  editor  of  the  Cabinet.  In  1842  he  established  the  Transcript  weekly, 
and  the  jV.  H.  Magazine,  monthly,  at  Manchester.  In  1843  he  removed  the  former 
to  Great  Falls,  and  established  the  Stratford  Transcript,  weekly.  In  1848  he  re 
turned  to  Amherst,  and  became  proprietor  of  his  father's  newspaper,  which  is 
still  published  by  him.  His  poetical  productions  have  been  largely  of  a  textual  and 
devotional  character.  He  has  published  "Fragrant  Memories,  or  the  Dead  of  a 
Hundred  Years,"  a  poem  of  forty  pages,  read  at  the  Centennial  of  his  native  town 
in  1860,  and  in  1882  a  poem  of  the  same  leugth,  "The  Cross  of  Christ." 


BRIDAL  OF  THE  GRANITE  AND  PINE. 

[Head  at  the  meeting  of  the  Maine  Press  Association,  in  1869,  (at  Little  Che- 
beaque,  Portland  Harbor,)  and  sung  by  Barnabee's  Troupe,  in  music  composed 
for  it  by  Keller,  at  the  Joint  Convention  of  the  Maine  and  New  Hampshire  Associa 
tions  at  Rjre  Beach,  in  1870  as  a  surprise  to  the  author.] 

The  hills  of  New  Hampshire  to  the  valleys  of  Maine 
Repeat  their  kind  greetings,  again  and  again  ; 
Delighted  its  Press-gang  with  yours  to  combine 
The  Granite  appeareth  to  honor  the  Piiie. 

When  morning's  bright-dawning  peers  in  o'er  the  sea, 
Dispelling  the  darkness  that  rests  on  the  lee, 


180  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Its  beautiful  rays,  like  their  Author  divine, 
Gild  at  the  same  moment  the  Granite  and  Pine. 

Old  Ocean's  proud  billows,  wide-rolling  in  state, 
On  both  our  shores  foaming,  in  service  await ; 
While  the  sweet  winds  of  heaven  know  of  no  line, 
But  blow  alike  sweetly  o'er  the  Granite  and  Pine. 

The  fleecy  clouds  gather  far  up  on  the  hills, 
With  vapors  of  amber,  exhaled  from  the  rills, 
And,  guided  by  Wisdom,  all-loving,  divine, 
Pour  showers  of  blessing  o'er  the  Granite  and  Pine. 

The  rills  of  our  mountains,  to  wild  streamlets  grown, 
Proud  rivers  of  beauty  in  the  valle3-s  are  known  ; 
Androscoggin  and  Saco,  first  mine,  and  then  thine, 
Born  each  of  the  Granite  and  blessing  the  Pine. 

Ties,  firm  and  well-bedded,  our  States  each  to  each 
Bind  firml}',  and  lessons  of  friendship  well  teach  ; 
While  the  Telegraph-line  and  our  art  combine 
To  record  the  warm  love  of  the  Granite  and  Pine. 

Your  lands  join  the  lands  of  no  other  State, 
Though  others,  as  worthy,  your  service  await ; 
Yet  thus  the  Great  Father  would  seem  to  design 
To  speak  of  the  love  of  the  Granite  and  Pine. 

Accepting  these  teachings  of  nature  and  art, 
We  give  and  we  take  the  warm  hand  and  heart ; 
Plighting,  in  our  true  love,  at  Chebeaque's  fair  shrine. 
Forever  to  cherish  the  Granite  and  Pine. 


THE  PEMIGEWASSET. 

Pemigewasset,  Pemigewasset, 
Pride  of  the  hills,  and  the  vale  that  has  it ! 
Born  of  the  clouds,  on  top  of  the  mountains  ; 
Fed  from  a  thousand  snow-fed  fountains  ; 
Rushing  down  from  Wambech  Methna, 
With  waters  pure  as  the  mountain  air, 
Over  a  rock-bound,  rock-worn  bed, 
To  the  vale  below,  with  an  angry  tread. 

Pemigewasset,  Pemigewasset, 
Pride  of  the  hills,  and  the  vale  that  has  it ! 
As  "child  of  the  crooked-pine  place"  known 
By  red-men  who  called  thee  once  their  own. 


ED  WARD  D.  BOYLSTON.  \ 8 1 


Companion  in  birth  of  the  tiny  brook 
That  far  adown  forms  the  wild  Amonoosnek, 
And  the  little  ripplets  that  dancing  grow 
To  the  Androscoggin  and  broad  Saeo. 

Pemigewasset,  Pemigewasset, 

Pride  of  the  hills,  and  the  vale  that  has  it ! 

What  cheer  in  thy  waters  as  onward  they  flow 

O'er  the  "Great  Falls,"  through  "Fairy  Grotto;" 

Spreading  out  in  a  lake,  around  Lafayette, 

As  an  "apple  of  gold"  in  silver  set — 

Where  mountain-storm  king  in  madness  or  mirth 

Has  spread  the  tall  forests  aslant  o'er  the  earth. 

Pemigewasset,  Pemigewasset, 
Pride  of  the  hills,  and  the  vale  that  has  it ! 
The  white  foaming  Flume,  and  the  Echo  Lake, 
Are  born  of  thy  waters,  of  th}*  beauty  partake  ; 
And  the  famed  "Old  Man"  from  his  dizzy  height, 
Looks  down  on  thy  waters  with  ever  delight. 

Pemigewasset,  Pemigewasset, 

Pride  of  the  hills,  and  the  vale  that  has  it ! 

G ration's  sweet  villas  and  valleys  rejoice 

As  by  them  ye  flow  with  musical  voice, 

And  Plymouth  and  Ashland,  and  whoever  has  it, 

Sings  paeans,  delighted,  to  the  Pemigewasset. 


THE  "GREAT  LIGHT." 

Light  of  my  soul !  O  Saviour  dear, 
How  I  delight  to  call  thee  mine, 

With  fond  assurance,  sweetly  clear, 
That  I  shall  be  forever  thine  ! 

O  brightness  of  the  Father's  face, — 

All  holiness  conjoins  in  Thee  ! 
All,  all  find  family  embrace, 

In  "I  in  them  and  Thou  in  me." 

Blest  those  who  know  thy  shining  clear, 
"Children  of  day,"  the}*  know  no  night ! 

They  walk  secure,  devoid  of  fear, 
For  they  are  "children  of  the  light." 

Shine  on  my  soul,  Saviour  divine  ; 

Thou,  thou  art  Light — all  else  is  shade  ! 


182  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

May  th}T  sweet  rays  my  steps  entwine, 
The  blessed  light  that  cannot  fade. 

O  glorious  Sun,  mount  up  on  high  ! 

Benighted  nations  wait  for  thee  ! 
Haste,  haste  to  thy  meridian  sky ! 

Bring  in  earth's  promised  jubilee  ! 


"NEARER  THEE!" 

Jesus,  Jesus,  let  us  be  Nearer  in  the  Emmaus  walk, 

Nearer,  nearer,  nearer  thee :      Hearts  aglowing  as  we  talk. 
Nearer  to  the  spear-pierced  side 

Of  our  Love,  the  Crucified.         Nearer  when  in  house  of  pray 
er,— 

Nearer,  nearer  in  our  love          Thou  art  ever  with  us  there  ; 
That   which   drew  thee  from    In  our  place  of  secrecy 

above  ;  Nearer  let  us  be  to  thee. 

Nearer  thine  our  walk  with  foes  ; 
Nearer  ever  mid  life's  woes.       Nearer  thine,  O  Lamb  of  God, 

Be  our  path  of  duty  trod, 

Nearer  in  communion  sweet,      Though  it  lead,  as  it  led  thee, 
Mary-like,  at  thy  dear  feet ;        "O'er  the  brook" — up  Calvary. 


"WITHOUT  GOD  IN  THE  WORLD." 

EPHESIANS  II.  :  XII. 

O  God  !  how  brightly  overhead 
Tli}*  glory  and  thy  power  are  read  ; 
The  sun  reflects  thy  light  and  might, 
As  doth  each  diadem  of  night. 

Where'er  on  earth  we  turn  our  e}'es 
Thy  glorious  shadow  o'er  it  lies  ; 
And  all  thy  works,  from  field  to  flower, 
Attest  thy  beauty  and  thy  power. 

The  waving  forest  speaks  of  thee, 
Yea,  praise  ascends  from  every  tree ! 
And  rolling  seas  confess  their  joy, 
And  in  thy  service  find  emplo}'. 

The  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
The  dew  that  on  them  sweet  distils, 
And  singing  birds  and  humming  bee, 
All  sweetly  join  in  praise  to  thee. 


CHARLES  W.  UPHAM.  183 

The  verdure  fragrant,  blossoms  sweet, 
Decking  the  footstool  of  thy  feet, 
And  tiniest  life  that  knows  the  sod, 
Bear  attestation  to  a  God. 

Blush  then,  ye  heavens  and  earth,  that  man, 
The  crowning  glor}r  of  God's  plan, 
Alone  of  all  made  by  His  hand, 
Godless  within  the  world  should  stand ! 


THE  BLESSED  SABBATH. 

O,  Sabbath  day !  conception  sweet, 
The  needs  of  weary  souls  to  meet ! 
A  gleam  of  glory  from  the  throne, 
Of  radiant  brightness  all  its  own ! 

Th}r  dawning  is  my  heart's  delight ; 
Thine  every  hour,  from  morn  till  night, 
So  fragrant,  and  with  grace  so  blest, 
Foreshadows  the  eternal  rest. 

When  dawns  the  sacred  day,  in  peace, 
From  earth  the  soul  finds  sweet  release, 
And  revels  in  a  realm  of  bliss, 
Forgetful  of  the  ills  of  this. 

O,  Sabbath  day !  thy  stay  too  short, 
When  with  such  heav'nly  sweetness  fraught ; 
Would  that  the  fragrance  to  thee  given 
Might  grace,  as  sweetly,  all  the  seven. 

O,  Sabbath  day  !  O,  Sabbath  day ! 
Light,  fragrance  on  earth's  dreary  way  ! 
Promise  of  coming  rest — yea,  more,  • 
Heaven's  sweet  shadow  cast  before ! 


Charles  W.  Upham  was  the  son  of  Gen.  Timothy  Upham  of  Portsmouth.    He  was 
born  in  that  town,  September  9, 1814.    He  died  in  December,  1834. 


JACOB'S  FUNERAL. 

A  train  came  forth  from  Egypt's  land, 
Mournful  and  slow  their  tread  ; 

And  sad  the  leader  of  that  band, 
The  bearers  of  the  dead. 

His  father's  bones  they  bore  away, 
To  lay  them  in  the  grave 


184  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Where  Abraham  and  Isaac  lay, 
Macpelah's  sacred  cave. 

A  stately  train,  dark  Egypt's  pride, 

Chariot  and  horse  are  there  ; 
And  silentl}-  in  sorrow  ride 

Old  men  of  hoary  hair. 
For  many  days  they  passed  along 

To  Atad's  threshing  floor, 
And  sang  their  last  and  saddest  song 

Upon  the  Jordan's  shore. 

And  Atad  saw  the  strangers  mourn, 

That  silent,  woe-clad  band, 
And  wondered  much  whose  bones  were  borne, 

Thus  far  from  Pharaoh's  land. 
They  saw  the  chieftain's  grief  was  sore, 

He  wept  with  manly  grace  ; 
They  called  that  spot  forevermore 

Misraim's  mourning  place. 

They  passed  the  wave  that  Jacob  passed, 

His  good  staff  in  his  hands, 
They  passed  the  wave  that  Jacob  passed 

With  his  returning  bands. 
'Twas  when  he  met  upon  his  path 

His  brother's  wild  array, 
And  fled,  for  fear  his  ancient  wrath 

Might  fall  on  him  that  day. 


Mr.  Harvey,  born  In  Sutton,  January  14, 1815,  and  is  descended  from  one  of  the  ear 
ly  and  well  known  families  of  that  town.  His  grandfather— whose  Christian  nainu 
he  hears — came  from  Nottingham  to  Suttou,  (then  Perrystown)  about  the  year  1774, 
where,  in  a  log  house  of  his  own  construction,  his  two  eldest  sons,  Jonathan  and 
Matthew,  were  born.  Deacon  Harvey  was  a  public  spirited  and  enterprising  citi 
zen,  well  known  as  a  civil  magistrate,  legislator  and  churchman ;  and  at  the  time  of 
his  death  in  1799,  he  was  an  extensive  landholder  and  a  man  of  wealth.  Both  of 
the  sons  mentioned  above  subsequently  became  members  of  congress,  and  the  lat 
ter  was  elected  Governor  of  N.  H.  in  1830.  Mr.  Harvey  is  the  only  brother  of  Mrs 
Augusta  H.  Worthen,  of  Lynn,  Mass.,  a  well  known  writer  of  both  prose  and 
verse — selections  from  whose  sparkling  poems  appear  in  this  collection.  In  1831, 
he  entered  the  printing  office  of  the  Argtit  and  Spectator,  at  Newport,  as  an  appren 
tice  ;  and  in  1840,  with  his  cousin,  H.  CJ.  Carleton,  purchased  the  establishment,  and 
the  paper  was  edited  and  published  by  Messrs.  Carleton  &  Harvey  through  an  un 
broken  period  of  forty  years.  Political  journalism  is  not  a  good  field  for  the  culti 
vation  of  poetic  sentiments;  but  still,  Mr.  Harvey's  occasional  poems  evince  rare 
talent  in  that  direction,  as  the  following  selections  will  show. 


THE  OLD  HEARTH-STONE. 

I  sing  of  the  old  hearth-stone  that  quietly  lay 
'Neath  my  own  native  roof  near  the  side  of  the  way, 


MATTHEW  HARVEY.  185 

Where  the  bright  glowing  embers,  all  cheerful  and  warm, 
Looked  out  on  the  darkness  and  laughed  at  the  storm. 
The  music,  the  mirth,  and  the  songs  that  resound 
O'er  this  smooth  marble  hearth,  ring  not  with  the  sound 
Of  joy  and  true  gladness  that  was  kindled  alone 
With  the  fire  that  once  blazed  on  the  old  hearth-stone. 

It  speaks  of  a  mother  who  used  to  sit  there, 

Plying  her  needles  in  the  old  arm-chair, 

Ere  time  dimmed  her  eye,  and  fringed  her  fair  brow 

With  wrinkles  of  age  and  silver  as  now. 

It  speaks  of  a  father  who  sat  by  her  side, 

Watching  his  children  as  gaily  they  glide 

Round  the  lap  of  affection,  in  the  light  that  was  thrown 

From  the  oaken  back-log  on  the  old  hearth-stone. 

'Twas  there  that  five  sisters,  at  close  of  the  day, 
Were  joined  by  a  brother  in  health-giving  play, 
Till  the  music  of  angels  was  echo'd  from  earth 
By  juvenile  tongues  round  the  old  stone  hearth. 
That  house  is  now  silent !     Joy  reigns  there  no  more  ! 
Decay'd  is  the  threshold  and  closed  is  the  door ! 
The  latch-string  is  broken,  the  warblers  all  flown, 
Save  the  cricket  that  sings  'neath  the  old  hearth-stone. 

I've  since  wander'd  long  mid  fashion  and  pleasure, 
Searching  in  vain  for  the  priceless  treasure 
That  once  was  my  own — but  I  knew  not  its  worth, 
Till  driven  by  fate  from  the  old  stone  hearth. 
'Tis  thus  that  a  thought  of  this  relic  of  yore 
Carries  me  back  to  my  childhood  once  more ; 
Then  lay  me  away,  when  life's  work  is  done, 
And  cover  my  grave  with  the  old  hearth-stone  ! 

Sink  my  epitaph  deep  in  its  foot-worn  face, 

And  there  let  the  names  of  lov'd  sisters  have  place — 

That  when  the  old  homestead  is  lost  in  decay, 

And  the  circle,  now  broken,  has  vanished  away, 

Some  student  of  art  may  pause  and  restore 

To  the  moss-covered  names  their  freshness  once  more  ; 

And  read  from  the  tablet,  forsaken  and  lone, 

Our  Family  Record  on  the  old  hearth-stone. 

A  PATHETIC  BALLAD. 

Written  with  the  author's  left  hand,  and  inscribed  to  his  broken  right  arm. 

"How  now?  pray  tell,  my  Good  Right  Arm, 
Why  bone  and  muscle  swing, 


186  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Incapable  of  good  or  harm, 
Like  culprit  in  a  sling? 

Why  clothed  like  mummy,  weird  and  old, 

In  rags  from  elbow  down, 
And  all  wrapp'd  up  in  linen  fold, 

Like  Bishop  in  his  gown  ? 

Full  three-score  3rears  and  five,  I  trow, 
Thou'st  been  my  servant  true  ; 

That  thou  should  thus  forsake  me  now, 
I  little  thought  of  3*011." 

A  twinge  of  pain,  in  stifling  moan, 
Precedes  this  quaint  reply  : — 

''Since  you,  it  seems,  have  stupid  grown, 
I'll  frankly  tell  you  why. 

First  know  that  my  anatomy 

Has  strangel}*  been  upset ; 
That  few  I  find  to  pity  me 

Is  reason  why  I  fret. 

The}T  sa}'  I  was  a  foolish  dolt — 
And  this  they  cite  for  proo^ : 

That  if  I'd  wisely  led  my  colt 
I'd  haply  'scaped  her  hoof. 

Of  this  mistake  I  did  repent 
And  said,  'Now,  brute,  I  pray, 

Do  not  3Tour  steel-clad  heels  relent  ?' 
Alas  !  she  answered  N-e-i-g-h  ! 

Yet  why  she  thus  has  smote  me  sore, 

I'd  kind  o'  like  to  know ; 
For  I've  stood  many  a  breeze  before, 

But  never  such  a  blow. 

But  still  in  charity  I  beg 
To  hope  she  meant  no  harm — 

That  when  she  raised  a  lively  leg, 
She  chanced  to  raze  an  arm. 

You'll  now  confess  that  in  my  time 

I've  done  some  little  good  ; 
And  here  I'll  put  it  into  rhyme — 

Just  as  a  poet  should. 

These  muscles  sad  e'en  now  are  glad 
Themselves  to  only  hurt ; 


MATTHEW  HARVEY.  187 

The  naked  I  have  always  clad — 
When  I've  put  on  your  shirt. 

The  hungry  I've  as  often  fed 

(And  fed,  alas  !  a  sinner,) 
Whene'er  I've  been,  by  pity  led, 

To  cook  or  serve  your  dinner. 

And  yet  these  bones,  by  instinct  led, 

Would  gladly  guide  the  plough  ; 
And  by  industrious  habits  fed, 

Are  knitting  even  now. 

Abandon  your  ancestral  fame — 

Henceforth  'twill  have  no  charms 
For  one  who  now  can  only  claim 

But  half  a  Coat-of-Arms. 

And  while  one  limb's  of  life  bereft 

Just  utilize  the  other ; 
I  mean,  of  course,  the  one  that's  Left — 

My  stupid,  twin-born  brother. 

But  don't  expect  the  awkward  fool 

Can  often  'come  to  time  ;' 
He  could'nt  write  e'en  prose  at  school — 

Much  less  a  decent  rhyme." 


STANZAS. 

To  my  beloved  wife  on  the  fifth  anniversary  of  our  marriage,  Nov.  28, 1881. 

'Tis  strange  how  hours  to  moments  sink 

When  pleasure  rules  our  days  ; 
'Tis  strange  how  months  like  hours  appear 

'Neath  summer's  genial  rays  ; 
But  stranger  still  how  years  roll  by, 

When  most  we'd  bid  them  stay — 
Such  years  I  mean  as  we  have  seen, 

Five  wedded  years  to-day. 

I  bless  the  hour,  my  own  lov'd  wife, 

When  first  I  called  you  mine  ; 
The  hand  I  then  did  give  to  thee 

Was  gently  clasp'd  in  thine. 
And  here  again,  with  vows  renewed, 

I  pledge  what's  left  of  life, 
To  her  whose  smiles  have  sweetened  it, — 

My  own,  my  darling  wife. 


1 88  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

Her  gentle  tongue  a  sword  doth  wield, 

'  All-potent  in  its  sway, 
To  conquer  e'en  my  stubborn  will, 

And  point  "the  better  way." 
When  e3'es  of  black  meet  hers  of  blue, 

Fresh  life  this  bosom  stirs  ; 
I  know  my  heart  was  purified 

By  melting  it  with  hers. 

And  thus  my  dove  I  seek  th}r  love ; 

Tis  half  I  hope  of  Heaven  ! 
Oh  cherish  mine  as  part  of  thine  ! 

And  may  it  ne'er  be  riven 
By  sorrow's  tears  in  future  years, 

As  we  march  hand  in  hand 
Ky  twilight  rays  from  Wisdom's  ways, 

Up  to  the  "Better  Land." 


2Uorti)ett. 


Mrs.  \Vorthen,  a  sister  of  Matthew  Harrey,  was  born  In  Sutton,  September  27, 
IW2J.  She  was  educated  at  Andover  Academy,  and  was  subsequently  a  teacher  in 
that  institution.  In  1855  she  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Charles  F.  Worthen,  now  de 
ceased.  Her  home  is  in  Lynn,  Mass.  She  has  been  author  of  a  history  of  her  ua- 
tive  town,  and  is  a  constant  contributor,  in  both  prose  and  verse,  to  newspapers 
and  magazines.  Her  poems  are  full  of  original  fancy,  tender  thought,  and  true 
sentiment. 


THE  LILY'S  STORY. 

(On  finding,  In  the  month  of  October,  aX,ily  growing  in  the  dry  bed  of  it  pond.) 

Linger  not  within  the  shadow 

Of  the  lonely  forest  pines  ; 
See  on-yonder  hill  and  meadow. 

Bright  October  sunlight  shines  ? 
Come,  for  bright  must  fall  its  radiance, 
On  the  pond  where  lilies  grew, 
Still,  perchance,  some  breath  of  fragrance 

Hovers  o'er  its  waters  blue. 
O'er  the  rocks  the  wild  vines  creeping. 

Flushed  with  autumn's  crimson  glow, 
Wondering,  see  the  clouds  lie  sleeping 

In  the  mirror  depths  below. 
We,  with  such  sweet  fancies  haunted, 

Seek  the  spot  last  }~ear  so  fair, 
Painfully  are  disenchanted, 

For  no  pretty  pond  is  there. 
Coarse  and  rank  the  weeds  are  growing 

O'er  its  dark  and  oozy  bed, 


AUGUSTA  HARVEY  WORTH  EN.  ]89 

But  no  murmuring  brook  is  flowing 

'Neath  the  alder-berries  red. 
Yet,  in  yon  low  quagmire  gleaming, 

Something  pure  and  white  I  see  ! 
But,  I'm  onl}'  fondly  dreaming — 

Can  the  flower  a  Lily  be? 
Yes,  all  fragrant,  fresh  and  smiling 

In  October's  mellow  light, 
Me  of  all  sad  thoughts  beguiling, 

'Twas  a  Lily  met  my  sight. 
None  can  tell  my  heart's  deep  pleasure, 

Half  the  foolish  things  it  said, 
As  I  sought  the  precious  treasure — 

Bent  me  o'er  its  beauteous  head. 
Had  my  loving  admiration 

Waked  some  sweet  responsive  thrill? 
Saw  I  not  a  faint  pulsation 

All  its  slender'stamens  fill? 
Why  did  every  petal  tremble 

'Neath  my  warm  admiring  gaze? 
Might  it  not  its  joy  dissemble 

At  my  words  of  earnest  praise  ! 
Had  it,  like  the  human  spirit, 

Longed  for  recognition  too  ? 
Strong  desire  did  it  inherit 

For  appreciation  true  ! 
Wilt  thou  credit  this  sweet  marvel 

That,  within  my  spirit's  ear, 
Words  of  hopeful,  earnest  counsel 

From  the  Lily  I  should  hear? 
Sweet  the  tale  of  joy  and  sorrow 

Which  the  Lily  told  to  me  ; 
Would  I  might  its  accents  borrow 

While  I  tell  it  unto  thee. 

Spring  was  young  (thus  ran  the  story) 

When  the  tin}-  bud  had  birth  ; 
Came  and  went  the  summer's  glory 

Ere  she  bloomed  in  beauty  forth. 
Never  on  the  clear  bright  billow, 

Lifted  from  her  lowly  bed, 
Never  on  a  wavelet  pillow 

Rested  she  her  gentle  head. 
Still,  the  torturing,  upward-yearning 

Instincts  of  her  dainty  race. 
Bade  her  from  the  dull  earth  turning, 


190  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Rise  in  purity  and  grace. 
"Mockery  eveiy  aspiration, 

Prone  and  helpless  here  I  lie." 
This  in  hours  of  dark  temptation 

Was  her  spirit's  anguish  cry. 
"Vain  the  hopes,  the  longings  endless, 

For  a  freer,  brighter  life, 
Making  me  more  lone  and  friendless, 

Wearying  me  with  useless  strife. 
Let  my  better  nature  perish ; 

Nevermore  will  1  aspire, 
Nevermore  will  seek  to  cherish 

Higher  instinct,  pure  desire  : 
On  these  weeds  will  gaze  admiring 

Nodding  in  this  earth-born  breeze  ; 
Coarse,  contented,  unaspiring. 

Would  I  were  like  one  of  these." 

But  the  sunbeams  on  her  falling, 

Roused  from  that  despairing  chill, 
And  the  voice  within  her  calling, 

Bade  her  be  a  Lily  still. 
Wind-borne,  from  some  purer  region, 

Came  this  testimony  free  : 
"Fear  not,  for  their  name  is  Legion, 

Who  have  hoped  and  toiled  like  thee. 
Slowly,  painfully,  thou  learnest 

What  thy  destiny  must  be  ; 
All  thine  inner  promptings  earnest 

Are  but  glorious  prophecy. 
Faithful  to  thy  highest  duty, 

Hope,  yet  work  with  heart  and  will ; 
Thou  shalt  yet  arise  in  beaut}*, 

Thou  shalt  be  a  Lily  still." 

Then,  as  to  some  touch  mysterious, 

Every  inmost  heart-string  thrilled, 
While  her  spirit,  thoughtful,  serious, 

With  a  wondrous  joy  was  filled. 
Blessed  hours  of  exaltation  ! 

Memories  of  such  rapture  rare, 
Saved  her  from  her  dark  temptation, 

Strengthened  her  against  despair. 
Though  no  partial  friends  beholding 

Cheered  her  with  delicious  praise, 
All  unmarked  her  slow  unfolding 

Through  the  long,  long  summer  days  ; 


AUGUSTA  HARVEY  WORTHEN.  191 

Though  half  doubtful  of  her  mission, 

Dreading  lest  her  power  might  fail, 
Musing  on  that  dream  Elysian, 

Hopeful  grew  the  Lily  pale. 
All  its  meaning  scarce  divining, 

Still  new  efforts  she  put  forth  : 
For  the  vital  moistures  pining 

Deeper  struck  her  roots  in  earth. 
Gratefully,  her  thirst  allaying, 

Every  dew-drop  gathered  up  ; 
Choice  perfumes  from  zephyrs  straying, 

Hoarded  in  her  pearly  cup. 
Once,  to  let  the  sunbeams  enter, 

Dared  to  ope  that  chalice  white  ; 
Instantly  her  heart's  deep  centre 

Caught  their  golden  radiance  bright. 
So  she  kept  her  pure  corolla 

Free  from  earthly  soil  or  stain, 
Ti]l  the  autumn  winds  blew  hollow — 

Fell  the  welcome  autumn  rain. 
Then  a  little  pool  collected — 

Raised  her  on  her  slender  stem, 
Then  a  LILT  was  perfected 

Fairer  than  the  fairest  gem. 

Toiler,  thinker,  dreaming  poet, 

Doubtful  of  your  highest  powers, 
Work  in  hope,  for,  ere  you  know  it, 

Help  shall  come  like  autumn  showers. 


KEARSARGE  TO  ITS  NAMESAKE. 

A  monarch  old,  my  court  I  hold 

A  hundred  miles  away, 
But  I  look  afar  as  a  ship  of  war 

Comes  proudly  up  the  bay. 

I  hear  the  fort,  with  loud  report 

Of  cannon's  swift  discharge, 
Though  autumn  air  shout  welcome  fair, 

Shout  welcome  to  Kearsarge. 

Glad  tremor  thrills  the  rock-ribbed  hills 

That  in  my  presence  wait, 
From  lips  of  fame  they  catch  the  name 

Dear  to  the  Granite  State. 


192  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

0  !  Godson  brave,  thy  name  /  gave, 
For  thee  I  sponsor  stood, 

With  earnest  voice  I  pledged  thy  choice 
To  seek  thy  country's  good. 

1  hear  her  tell  "thou  hast  done  well ! 
For  nations  that  defied, 

Saw  th}'  tierce  blows  sink  traitor  foes 
Beneath  a  foreign  tide." 

My  thanks,  namesake,  now  freely  take, 
Thanks  and  my  welcome  too— 

Thou'st  brought  no  shame  upon  my  name, 
I  give  thee  honor  due. 

So  live  and  fight  for  countiy's  right, 

Be  loyal,  true  and  brave, 
Till  foreign  hate  share  treason's  fate, 

Beneath  a  foreign  wave. 


Mary  Whitcher  was  born  in  Lawrens,  Otsego  Co.,  N.  Y.  March  31, 1815.  She  came 
to  Shaker  Village,  Canterbury,  with  her  father's  family  in  182fi.  Where  the 
Shaker  Society  is  now  located  was  the  homestead  of  her  grandfather,  Benjamin 
Whitcher,  and  the  birthplace  of  her  father,  Joseph  Whitcher.  From  childhood  to 
the  present  time  she  has  spent  her  years  in  a  Shaker  community. 


THE  SNOW  STORM. 

What  kindness  of  our  Father,        Our  weakness  and  our  sin, 

To  spread  a  mantle  o'er          If  we  beneath  the  covering 
All  dark  and  ugly  features,  Of  Mercy  would  come  in. 

Which  face  of  nature  bore  !     This  is  the  Lord's  pavilion  ; 
All  draped  in  lily  whiteness,  It  covers  all  below  ; 

The  rocks  and  mountains'       As  doth  the  rain  and  sunshine, 

side  ;  So  doth  the  mantling  snow. 

Alike  the  vales  and  hill-tops : — Oh  when  shall  we  consider 

Thus  would  our  maker  hide        What  God  for  us  hath  done  ; 
Our  darkest  wrongs  with  white-  And  in  that  loving  kindness 
ness,  Deal  kindly  with  each  one  ? 


James 


James  Kennard  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  Nov.  20,  1815.  When  sixteen  years  of 
age  he  became  lame  in  his  right  knee,  which  compelled  him  to  abandon  the  busi 
ness  he  was  engaged  in.  This  leg  was  subsequently  amputated,  and  the  other  leg 
and  his  arms  and  lingers  became  diseased  so  that  his  remaining  life  was  spent  In 
great  suffering.  lie  became  also  almost  blind,  and,  for  many  years,  till  his  death  in 
1847,  was  oonnned  to  his  bed.  His  writings,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  with  a  memoir 
by  Prof.  A.  P.  Peabody,  were  published  in  a  volume  after  his  decease.  He  was  an 
able  writer,  and  his  years  of  bodily  suffering  were  not  passed  in  gloom,  but  in 
great  fortitude  and  Christian  resignation. 


JAMES  KENNARD.  193 

FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

A  thousand  thrilling  recollections  flash 
From  memory's  field  in  vivid  colors  forth, 
As,  starting  from  my  sleep,  1  hear  the  crash 
Of  pealing  cannon,  and  the  noisy  mirth 
Of  joyous  multitudes.     The  dewy  earth 
Is  not  yet  lighted  by  the  rising  sun, 
Yet  doth  the  welkin  ring,  from  south  to  north, 
With  cracker,  pistol,  blunderbus,  and  gun, 
Proclaiming  that  the  boys  have  just  commenced  their  fun. 

Memory  is  busy,  and  I  feel  almost 
A  boy  again  ;  I  seem  to  be  once  more 
Just  springing  from  my  bed,  counting  as  lost 
The  time  there  spent  beyond  the  hour  of  four. 
Short  was  my  pra}'er  just  then,  my  toilet  o'er 
In  half  the  usual  time, — I  grappled  quick 
My  powder  flask  and  gun, — stole  to  the  door 
All  silently.     Ah  !  then  my  heart  beat  thick, 
Lest  I  betrayed  mj-self  by  some  untimely  creak ! 

In  vain  may  parents  try  to  keep  their  children 
In  bed  till  sunrise  on  a  morn  like  this, — 
The  sounds  are  so  exciting  and  bewildering, — 
It  is  a  pity  thus  to  mar  their  bliss  ; 
What's  more,  unless  they  tie  them,  they  will  miss 
The  little  urchins,  if  into  their  bed 
They  take  a  peep,  long  er.e  the  sun  shall  kiss 
The  hill-tops  with  his  rays.     Oft  have  I  fled 
Thus,  through  the  old  back  window  which  hangs  o'er  the  shed. 

And  when  my  mother  (bless  her !)  thought  me  close 
And  safe  in  bed,  well  out  of  danger's  way, 
Around  me  then  the  smoke  of  powder  rose, 
Pealed  from  my  gun  loud  welcomes  to  the  day, 
And  careless  I  pursued  my  dangerous  play ; 
For,  on  this  day  of  Liberty,  I  thought 
'Twas  quite  excusable  to  disobey 
My  parents,  (naughty  boy  !)  and,  if  not  caught, 
My  conscience  scarcely  ever  spoilt  my  morning's  sport. 

Boys  will  be  boys  ;    and  now,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  wish  mj-self  a  wild  young  boy  again. 
O,  in  the  thoughtless  joyousness  of  youth, 
How  little  is  there  known  of  care  and  pain  ! 
How  little  felt  the  storms  of  fate  which  rain 


194  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

So  heavily  on  manhood's  hope's,  and  quench 
In  gloom  the  flame  which  strives,  but  strives  in  vain, 
To  gather  strength,— sinking  beneath  the  drench 
Of  careless  sorrows,  which  oft  make  the  strongest  blench. 


WHAT  SHALL  I  ASK  IN  PRAYER? 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?     Have  I  not  all 

That  fortune  can  bestow  of  earthly  gifts, — 

Health,  riches,  friends?    What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer? 

That  God  continue  to  pour  out  on  me 

Thus  bountifully  all  earth's  choicest  blessings? 

Shall  I  kneel  down,  and  pray  that  he  will  still 

Preserve  m}*  health  inviolate,  sustain 

In  all  its  robust  strength  this  wondrous  frame? 

That  he  wilt  still  pour  wealth  into  my  coffers, 

Nor  leave  a  single  wish  ungratified 

Which  luxury  can  prompt?     Or  shall  I  ask 

That  friends  may  yet  be  true  ;  that  time  ma}r  not 

Estrange  their  hearts  from  me,  nor  death  destroy  ? 

Shall  1  pray  thus?     No !  let  me  rather  bend 

In  fearful,  trembling  meekness  at  the  shrine  : 

Father  in  heaven  !  oh,  give  me  strength  to  use 

Aright  those  talents  which  in  wisdom  thou 

Committedst  to  my  care  !     I  am  thy  steward  ; 

And,  when  the  final  day  of  reckoning  comes, 

Ma}- 1  then  render  in  a  good  account ! 

I  pray  not  that  thou  wouldst  continue  all 

These  earthly  blessings  ;  for  thou  knowest  what 

Is  best  for  me.     Should  sickness,  sorrow,  want, 

K'er  come  upon  me,  all  I  ask,  O  God  ! 

Is  resignation  to  thy  holy  will. 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?     Misfortune  sweeps 
Resistless  over  all  my  earthly  hopes. 
Storm  after  storm  has  beat  upon  my  head  ; 
Broken  and  scattered  to  the  winds  the  fabric 
Of  all  my  worldly  greatness.     One  by  one 
My  plans  have  failed  ;  and,  striving  to  regain 
The  ground  which  I  had  lost,  and  seat  myself 
Again  on  Fortune's  highest  pinnacle, 
I  have  but  overwhelmed  myself  the  more, 
And  made  my  fall  the  greater.     All  is  gone  ! 
Riches  have  fled  ;  and  deep,  corroding  care 
Has  preyed  upon  my  very  life  ;  this  frame, 


JAMES  KENNARD. 


Erect  in  health  and  manly  vigor  once, 

Which  scarcely  knew  what  illness  was,  is  bowed 

By  sickness, — tottering  and  feeble  now 

The  once  elastic  step.     Pale  is  the  cheek 

Which  once  did  wear  the  ruddy  glow  of  health, 

And  dim  the  e}-e  which  shone  with  joy  and  hope. 

One  comfort  only  3*et  remains  to  me, — 

A  gentle  friend,  true  as  in  former  days, 

More  kind  and  more  affectionate  than  ever. 

She  watches  by  my  bed,  and  soothes  my  pain, 

And  droops  not,  though  my  spirit  sinks  within  me. 

Adversity's  thine  element,  O  woman  ! — 
What  shall  I  ask  in  pra3Ter?     Shall  I  send  up 
To  heaven's  gate  complaining  notes  of  woe, 
And  supplicate  Jehovah  to  give  back 
The  riches  and  the  health  of  former  days  ? 
Doth  not  the  Lord  know  what  is  best  for  me  ? 
Father  above  !  I  bow  beneath  the  rod  : 
Amid  the  desolation  of  my  hopes 
I  ask  but  resignation  to  thy  will. 

What  shall  I  ask  in  pra}-er?     I  have  no  friend  ! 

Misfortune  robbed  me  of  my  wealth ;  and  then 

I  saw,  alas !  the  ties  which  bound  my  friends 

To  me  were  golden  strings ;  they  snapped  in  twain  ; 

My  riches  fled  ;  and  friendship  was  no  more  ! 

Death  snatched  away  my  last,  true,  only  friend. 

She  died  !  and  I  am  left  alone  to  drag 

In  misery  the  burden  of  my  life  along. 

Grim  famine  stares  ;  and  sickness  eats  into 

My  very  vitals,  nor  permits  repose. 

Poor,  friendless,  sick, — I  raise  my  thoughts  to  heaven. 

What  shall  I  ask  in  pra3rer  ?     Shall  I  besiege 
God's  throne  with  lamentations  ?     Shall  I  pray 
That  he  restore  to  me  health,  riches,  friends? 
Then  would  ni}*  sorrows  have  been  all  in  vain. 
Health  makes  us  thoughtless  that  a  time  will  come 
When  "dust  returns  to  dust ;"  and  riches  are 
Too  prone  to  keep  our  thoughts  from  higher  things , 
And  friends  do  often  fill  the  heart  so  wholly 
That  not  one  thought  of  God  can  gain  admittance. 
"Tis  good  for  me  that  I  have  been  afflicted." 
I  thank  thee,  God  !  and,  should  thei-e  be  in  store 
Yet  further  trials,  strengthen  me,  I  pray, 
And  give  me  spiritual  health,  and  let 

v 


196  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

My  riches  be  laid  up  in  heaven  above  ! 
My  everlasting  Friend,  thou  God  of  mercy  ! 
In  earthly  troubles,  Lord  !  I  only  ask 
For  resignation  to  thy  holy  will. 


fftidjael 


Michael  W.  Beck  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  November  20,  1815.  His  father  was  Sam- 
uel  Beck,  brother  to  Gideon  Beck,  editor  and  publisher  of  the  New  Ifampuhire  Ga 
zette.  After  the  death  of  Michael's  father  he  was  adopted  by  his  uncle  Gideon.  At 
an  early  age  he  began  an  active  business  life  as  a  practical  printer,  ^onu  after 
completing  his  apprenticeship  in  the  office  of  the  Gazette,  in  1832,  he  went  to  Boston, 
and  worked  in  the  office  of  Tuttle  &  Weeks,  printers.  While  at  work  there  he  often 
contributed  poetry  to  the  columns  of  the  lioston  Post.  In  1837  Mr.  Beck  went  to  Saco, 
Maine.  He  purchased,  in  company  with  another,  the  Maine  Democrat.  In  the  man 
agement  of  this  paper  he  was  both  printer  and  editor,  and  so  intense  was  his  ap 
plication  to  the  business  of  the  establishment,  that  his  physical  constitution  became 
affected,  by  a  disease,  which  early  terminated  his  earthly  career.  His  intellectual 
powers  were  strong  and  active,  and,  lor  one  of  his  years,  well  matured.  His  reputa 
tion  as  a  political  writer  stood  deservedly  high,  lie  died  at  Portsmouth,  March  9. 
1843. 


THE  WORLD  AS  IT  IS. 

This  world  is  not  so  bad  a  world 

As  some  would  wish  to  make  it ; 
Though  whether  good,  or  whether  bad, 

Depends  on  how  we  take  it. 
For  if  we  scold  and  fret  all  day, 

From  dewy  morn  till  even, 
This  world  will  ne'er  afford  to  man 

A  foretaste  here  of  heaven. 

This  world  in  truth's  as  good  a  world 

As  e'er  was  known  to  any 
Who  have  not  seen  another  yet 

(And  these  are  very  many  ;) 
And  if  the  men  and  women  too 

Have  plenty  of  employment, 
Those  surely  must  be  hard  to  please, 

Who  cannot  find  cnjo3"iuent. 

This  world  is  quite  a  clever  world 

In  rain,  or  pleasant  weather, 
If  people  would  but  learn  to  live 

In  harmony  together ; 
Nor  seek  to  break  the  kindly  bond 

BJT  love  and  peace  cemented, 
And  learn  that  best  of  lessons  yet, 

To  alwa3-s  be  contented. 

Then  were  the  world  a  pleasant  world, 
And  pleasaut  folks  were  in  it : 


LEANDEB  CLARK. 


The  day  would  pass  most  pleasantly 
To  those  who  thus  begin  it ; 

And  all  the  nameless  grievances 
Brought  on  bj*  borrowed  troubles 

Would  prove,  as  certainly  they  are, 
A  mass  of  empty  bubbles  ! 


THE  SOUL. 

Whence  came  the  intellectual  ra}r 

That  lights  the  63*6  with  fire, 
That  earthward  will  not  bide  its  stay, 

But  heavenward  bids  aspire? 
Is  it  a  spark  from  God's  high  throne, 

Given  with  our  earliest  breath? 
And  will  he  claim  it  as  his  own, 

When  we  are  chilled  in  death? 

Oh,  precious  faith  !  cling  to  my  breast, 

A  hallowed  pilgrim  there  : 
When  to  my  bosom  thou  art  pressed, 

How  free  am  I  from  care  ! 
Let  sickness  rage,  let  pain  invade 

My  vitals  for  its  food, 
No  doubt  my  faith  shall  make  afraid, 

Nor  aught  be  mine  but  good. 

Through  death's  dark  valley  I  must  tread, 

Ere  youth's  fair  sun  is  set : 
Calmly  resigned,  I  bow  my  head, 

And  earth's  vain  joys  forget. 
The  spark  that  gleams,  the  jewelled  soul, 

The  casket  thrown  away, 
Shall  mingle  with  that  perfect  whole 

That  forms  God's  brightest  day  ! 


OTlark. 


Leander  Clark  was  born  in  Townsend,  Mass.,  March,  17, 1836.  He  came  with  his 
parents  to  New  Ipswich  when  eight  years  of  age,  and  was  educated  at  the  Apple- 
ton  Academy.  He  went  to  Boston  in  1839  and  became  a  portrait  painter.  After  a 
while  he  came  to  Nashua  and  practised  his  profession  for  a  year  or  more,  when  he 
removed  to  Bedford,  Mass.,  where  he  remained  about  two  years.  Then  he  return 
ed  to  Boston,  still  busy  at  painting.  After  some  years  he  disposed  of  his  studio 
and  returned  to  Bedford  where  he  resided  ten  years,  and  was  married  to  Miss  Lau 
ra  Hosmer.  He  then  went  to  New  Ipswich  wliere  he  remained  another  ten  years. 
Then  he  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  where  he  continued  to  reside  and  practise 
his  art.  Besides  painting  he  has  been  engaged  sometimes  in  mercantile  business, 
and  in  1865  had  a  clerkship  in  the  Treasury  Department.  He  now  devotes  his  time 
to  painting,  which  he  likes  better  than  any  other  employment.  As  a  poet  he  ranks 
high,  as  will  be  seen  by  his  poems  here  given. 


198  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

SONG. 

When  hearth  and  hall  were  lighted 

To  Evening  silent  guest 
And  ruddy  fires  were  paling, 

In  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
I  met  her  at  the  garden  gate, 

The  maiden  I  love  best, 

While,  dusk  and  gray, 

Departing  day 
Sank  to  the  isles  of  rest. 

We  loitered  with  the  streamlets, 

The  yellow  sheaves  between, 
Or  stood  above  the  torrent, 

Where  the  silver  birches  lean  ; 
Far  on  the  shining  stubble 

Shone  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Beneath  whose  glow, 

On  fallows  low, 
The  ploughman  drove  his  team. 

She  leaned  upon  in}-  bosom, 

And  her  locks  were  wet  with  dew, 
And  speechless  was  the  rapture, 

As  our  lips  together  grew  ; 
O  fragrant  with  the  harvest, 

Were  the  airs  that  o'er  us  blew, 

Till  Dian  queen, 

From  e'er  the  scene, 
Her  silent  orb  withdrew. 

Her  foot  is  like  the  zeplryr, 
.  Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 
Her  laugh  is  like  the  ripple, 

When  the  woodland  fountains  meet ; 
And  like  reflected  glimpses, 

Where  the  waves  run  wide  and  fleet, 

Her  glances  bright, 

With  azure  light, 
The  golden  spell  complete. 


A  DIRGE. 

Where  the  whispering  cypress  glooms, 
Daphney  she  lies  cold  and  low ; 
Bring  to  her  all  fragrant  blooms 
Of  the  fairest  flowers  that  blow. 


LEANDER  CLARK.  199 


There  let  babbling  runnels  break, 
Westering  winds  blow  in  your  stops, 
And  with  songful  dirges  make 
Verberant  the  cedar  tops. 

Joy  shall  now  no  more  attend 
In  the  walks  where  she  has  been  ; 
Weeping  memory  must  bend 
O'er  the  melancholy  scene. 

Viewless  Echo  like  a  voice 
From  each  cliff  shall  wail  and  cry  ; 
Birds  shall  sorrow  that  rejoice, 
Making  mournful  melody. 

Dreary  visions  now  embrace 
All  the  dreamful  hours  of  rest ; 
Melancholy  bends  her  mace 
O'er  the  sorrow-stricken  breast. 

Daphney  she  is  dead  and  gone 
Where  the  whispering  cypress  glooms  ; 
Night  or  morning  she  sleeps  on 
In  the  silent  place  of  tombs. 


LINES. 

Like  as  a  roll  of  carded  wool, 
That  many  a  careful  wife  doth  pull, 
And  off  her  spindle  quickly  run, 
So  soon  our  thread  of  life  is  spun. 

Like  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  plays, 
From  hand  to  hand,  even  so  our  days, 
From  morn  to  evening  swiftly  run, 
Until  the  web  of  life  is  done. 


FAITH  AND  HOPE. 

When  the  mind,  oppressed  with  sadness, 
Drapes  the  outer  world  in  gloom, 

Faith,  that  brings  the  dawn  of  gladness, 
Can  that  seeming  night  relume. 


200  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Such  is  Hope  unto  the  sainted, 
When  in  life's  serene  decay, 

All  the  threatning  clouds  are  painted 
With  the  magic  of  her  ray. 


SONNET. 

I  would  not  crave  an  unction  of  the  high, 
Nor  blessings  from  the  low,  the  heart  can  keep 
The  council  of  its  sorrow,  can  put  by 
The  tender  solace  of  a  frequent  sigh, 

And  turn  its  tears  to  ashes  but  not  weep. 
When  I  am  dead  I  prithee  let  me  sleep, 
Nor  bring  such  gifts  as  willing  hands  bestow, 
On  many  a  ridged  and  grass  betufted  heap  ; — 
But  let  the  sun  shine  and  the  west  winds  blow, 
Upon  the  green  roof  of  m}'  mansion  low — 
And  the  leaves  rustle,  and  the  moonbeams  dwell, 
And  the  rude  night  winds  whistle  as  they  go, 
And  on  the  deaf  ear  of  the  dead  shall  swell, 
The  dirges  of  the  deep  and  the  far  billows'  knell. - 


SONNET. 

Bird  of  the  wild,  why  art  thou  still  so  sad — 

To  set  thy  full  throat  trembling  at  a  lay  ? 
Is  it  that  I  in  mournful  weeds  am  clad, 

Or  dost  thou  chant  the  dirgeful  knell  of  day  ? 
The  somber  aspect  of  the  twilight  gra}', 

The  silent  moon,  that  silvers  o'er  each  height, 
The  glow-worm's  lamp,  that  glimmers  far  away, 

In  grassy  glades,  O  wakeful  bird  of  night ! 
Are  they  not  leaves,  from  whence  thou  dost  indite 

That  wild  melodious  clamor?  If  for  mine, 
Or  any  mortal  sorrow,  is  the  plight 

In  which,  sweet  bird,  thou  nightl}'  dost  repine  ; 
O,  take  thy  bosom  from  such  cruel  thorn, 

And  leave  to  earthly  man  his  grief  forlorn. 


HESTER  MORELAND. 

Sweet  Hester  Moreland,  how  I  love  the  name, 

The  very  door  she  enters  I  adore. 
I've  seen  some  belles  and  beauties  known  to  fame, 


LEANDER  CLARK.  201 

And,  though  I  cheerfully  admit  their  claim, 
They're  not  so  fair  a  mark  for  Cupid's  aim 
As  Hester  Moreland,  whom  I  named  before. 

Twas  rather  foolish,  but  we  took  a  miff 
.At  some  unguarded  words  we  both  deplore, 

That  when  we  met  at  church,  or  Cedar  Cliff, 
To  see  the  cattle  show,  we  bowed  as  if 

Our  heads  and  shoulders  had  been  getting  stiff — 
'Twas  very  foolish,  as  I  said  before. 

At  length  I  wrote  her,  saying  I  would  call ; 

That  "this  estrangement  I  must  needs  deplore." 
She  wrote  in  answer,  "  do  indeed  by  all 

That's  sweet  and  sacred,  trust  these  tears  and  call, 
For  where  love  enters  pride  must  have  a  fall. 

Yes,  call  indeed,  love,  as  I  said  before." 

The  bats  were  stirring,  and  the  stars  began 

To  twinkle  as  she  met  me  at  the  door, 
For  love  is  sweetest  in  the  silent  van 
Of  coming  shadows,  when  no  eye  may  scan, 

And  bats  are  stirring,  as  I  said  before. 

"Let's  walk,  dear  Sandy,  and  before  you  go 

We'll  make  it  up,  "  she  said,  "  and  frown  no  more  ; 

I  know  you  love  me,  for  you  told  me  so ; 

That  I  love  you  as  well,  I  know  you  know, 
So  let  us  walk,  love,  as  I  said  before." 

"  Then  kiss  me,  Hester,  sweet  as  blossomed  peas, 
And  press  to  mine  the  lips  that  I  adore, 

For  only  kisses  can  the  heart  appease 

And  of  its  sore  regrets  the  bosom  ease ; 
0,  kiss  me,  dearest,  as  I  said  before." 

'Twas  what  we  needed,  so  we  kissed  and  kissed, 
And  when  we'd  kissed  awhile  we  kissed  some  more. 

In  love  as  we  were  how  could  we  resist 

The  panacea  we  so  long  had  missed, 
And  so  much  needed,  as  I  said  before. 

Few  words  suffice  for  lovers  to  explain  ; 

Young  hearts  are  tender  to  the  very  core  ; 
Though  oft  perverse  and  eager  for  the  pain 
That  frowns  impart,  we  soon  make  up  again, 

And  hope  to  kiss  and  kiss  forevermore. 


202  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

INTRAMUROS. 

At  the  dead  middle  of  a  moonless  night 
Something  awoke  me,  and  there  shone  a  light 

Within  my  room  ; 

I  looked  and  listened  for  some  token  near, 
When  these  just  words  of  wisdom  smote  my  ear 

From  out  the  gloom. 

'  'He  that  would  shun  the  stroke  of  fate 
Let  wisdom  show  him  his  estate 

Before  he  fall. 

Life  is  beset  with  gins  and  snares, 
And  wicked  ways  and  guilty  stairs 

Mislead  us  all. 

Then  dream  not  Pleasure's  flickering  light 
Will  lead  thy  erring  steps  aright. 

Delusive  beam ! 

It  shines  o'er  sepulchres  and  tombs, 
Gilding  the  horror  of  their  glooms 

More  than  a  dream. 

Pursue  nor  Chance,  her  barge  of  fate, 
Nor  chartless  Fortune  with  the  freight 

That  doth  betray, 
For  in  the  perils  of  their  wake 
Thy  phantom-chasing  sail  shall  make 

Nor  port  nor  bay. 

Regard  not  wealth,  who  ties  the  marts 
In  masonry  of  sordid  arts 

That  men  employ ; 
Her  dust  the  idle  palm  may  fee 
But  in  the  free  soul's  treasury 

'Tis  base  allo}'. 

O  trust  not  Love  ;  'tis  like  the  brook 
That  through  thy  garden's  flowery  nook 

Soft  murmuring  flows, 
But  in  its  windings  to  the  sea 
It  laughs  and  ripples  fancy-free 

Where  e'er  it  goes. 

Trust  not  the  seeming  friend,  for  he 
Is  like  the  shadow  of  a  tree 

That  steals  away, 
At  first  slow  gliding  from  its  place 
But  ere  its  distant  point  ye  trace 

'Tis  gone  for  aye. 


MAST  B.  HOSMER.  203 

Esteem  not  Honor,  Glory,  Fame, 
The  noise,  the  blazon,  of  a  name, — 

They  pass  away ; 
They  are  the  world's  prerogative, 
But  to  th'  aspiring  soul  can  give 

Nor  help  nor  stay. 

Search  not  the  guilds  for  stamps  of  birth, 
Through  pedigrees  of  dubious  worth 

And  doubtful  claim, 
Let  thine  own  deeds  emboss  the  field 
Of  that  escutcheon  thou  mayst  wield 

For  praise  or  blame. 

Think  not  the  fault  in  thee  removed, 
But  know  that  all  thy  ways  are  grooved 

Of  ancient  use ; 

He  who  himself  hath  justly  scanned 
And  knows  his  fault, — he  can  command 

Of  Death  a  truce." 


13 

Mrs.  Hosmer,  a  daughter  of  Benjamin  A.  and  Martha  Clark,  of  New  Ipswich, 
and  a  sister  of  the  preceding  poet,  was  born  October,  30,  1820.  She  received  her 
education  at  the  Appleton  Academy,  in  that  town,  and  at  Miss  Catharine  Fiske's 
Ladies'  Seminary  in  Keene.  In  1841  "she  -was  married  to  Castalio  Hosmer  of  Nash 
ua,  where  they  resided  till  1844,  when  they  removed  to  Roxbury,  Mass.  In  1848, 
they  went  to  Kankakee  City,  111.  In  1861" Mr.  Hosmer  was  appointed  to  office  by- 
President  Lincoln,  and  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  where  they  now  reside. 
Mrs.  Hosmer  is  well  known  in  literary  circles  and  is  a  writer  of  genuine  poetry. 

THE  BEGGAR'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

What  ails  the  night  that  it  moans  so  loud, 

Moans  so  loud  and  drearily? 

Doth  it  moan  for  the  homeless  and  famished  ones 

That  roam  the  street  so  wearily  ? 

While  close  to  this  doorway  I  shivering  creep, 

Wail  on,  oh !  night,  there  is  cause  to  weep, 

When  half  God's  children  are  starving  and  cold, 

With  never  a  bed  but  the  earth's  brown  mold. 

"Peace  on  earth  and  good  will  to  men," 
This  was  the  song  of  angels  when 
They  sang  of  old  on  Judea's  plains  ; 
Yet  still  the  rich  want  all  their  gains, 
Forgetting  that  peace  can  never  be 
'Mid  squalor  and  hunger  and  poverty. 
How  long  would  this  doorwa}-  a  shelter  be 
If  they  knew  within  that  it  sheltered  me  ? 


204  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Oh  !  ye  that  prate  of  "Christian  graces," 
And  school  your  sanctimonious  faces, 
And  look  on  the  poor  with  cold  disdain, 
"Giving  3'our  alms  to  be  seen  of  men  ;" 
Do  ye  follow  the  "gentle  JSazarene?" 
In  poveity's  haunts  are  .ye  often  seen? 
No  ;  3'ou  gather  j-our  skirts  and  pass  us  by, 
And  look  with  scorn  on  such  as  I. 

In  yonder  pringely  hall  I  see 
The  bending  boughs  of  a  Christmas  tree  ; 
There  all  is  bright  and  warm  as  the  sun, 
While  here  I  sit  on  this  cold  door-stone, 
And  think  myself  lucky  if  those  within 
Hear  not  my  wail  through  the  wild  night's  din, 
"Peace  on  earth  and  good  will"  were  sent; 
Was  this  the  "peace"  the  angels  meant? 

"Good  will  to  men  !"  doth  it  come  in  rags, 
Or  "Peace  on  earth"  to  the  foot  that  drags 
Its  weary  way  through  the  filth  and  dirt 
Which  sticks  not  alone  to  poverty's  skirts? 
Yes,  "Peace  on  earth,"  it  is  coming  now, 
I  feel  its  touch  on  my  icy  brow  ; 
The  only  peace  to  poverty  given, 
That  peace  which  opens  the  gates  of  heaven. 

They  are  opening  wide  !  m}-  soul  pass  in, 

Out  from  these  rags  so  worn  and  thin, 

Into  the  light  and  warmth  of  heaven, 

There  shall  the  peace  which  I  ask  be  given  ; 

While  this  poor  bod\T  so  worn  with  woe, 

The}'  shall  find  in  the  morn  'neath  the  Christinas  snow. 


AFTER  SEVENTEEN  YEARS 

I'm  nearing  home  !  the  mountain's  breath 
Blows  o'er  my  cheek  and  softly  saith  ; 
"Come  thou  long-wanderer  to  nvy  breast. 
Here  let  thy  feet  awhile  find  rest." 

I'm  nearing  home,  a  few  green  hills 
Lie  'tween  me  and  the  spot  that  thrills 
The  sweetest  memories  of  my  soul, — 
My  childhood's  home,  that  longed-for  goal. 

I'm  nearing  home,  the  steam -fed  horse 
Bellows  his  presence  loud  and  hoarse, 


MART  B.  HOSMER.  205 


Swiftly  he  glided  past  town  and  hill, 
Slowly  he  stops  ;  the  monster's  still. 

I  step  out  in  the  twilight  grey, 

September  eve  as  soft  as  May  ;  , 

The  rich,  ripe  air  alone  may  tell 

How  gathered  fruits  their  garners  swell. 

Adown  the  old  familiar  wold 
Where  oft  my  childish  feet  have  strolled, 
The  trees  are  fairer,  taller,  grown, 
The  same  old  brook  goes  murmuring  on. 

The  hale  old  elm  with  verdant  crown 
Reaches  its  arms  with  welcome  down, 
And  the  soft  greensward  neath  my  feet 
Seemeth  to  give  me  welcome  sweet. 

In  at  the  window  now  I  peer ; 

Thanks,  Time  !  though'st  wrought  no  changes  here, 

The  evening  lamp  with  cheerful  glow, 

Seemeth  to  say,  come  !  enter  now. 

I  lift  the  latch  !  a  solemn  thrill 
Sweeps  o'er  my  soul,  my  heart  stands  still, 
Hark  !  well-known  voices  greet  my  ear, 
I  listening  pause  almost  in  fear. 

Across  the  floor  with  noiseless  tread 
I  steal ;  do  not  th'  returning  dead 
Feel  as  I  feel,  when  they  softly  glide, 
And  stand  close  by  some  loved  one's  side  ? 

Two  forms  I  see  through  joyous  tears 
Erect  beneath  their  fourscore  years — 
One  bound  and  I  am  in  the  arms 
That  led  me  safe  through  childhood's  harms. 

O  Father  !  lengthen  out  their  years, 
Save  them  from  pain,  from  griefs  and  tears, 
And  oft  ma}7  I  rejoicing  come 
Again  to  my  New  England  home. 


TWILIGHT  MUSINGS. 

After  Charlotte  Bronte  in  Shirley,  Chap.  18. 

Nature  is  at  her  vespers  now, 

She  is  kneeling  on  the  mountain's  brow : 

The  grand  steps  of  her  altar  rise 

Up  the  rough  peak  to  the  evening  skies. 


206  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Her  altar  fire  is  burning  bright, — 
Art  cannot  catch  its  lovely  light, 
Nor  the  glowing  blush  she  hides  away, 
From  the  ardent  gaze  of  the  god  of  day. 

The  evening  star  clasps  her  purple  zone, 

Her  mist}'  hair  to  the  breeze  is  thrown, 

A  white  cloud  like  a  vail  sweeps  down, 

While  lightning  plays  'round  her  star-gemmed  crown. 

Her  purple  robe  o'er  the  valley  spreads 

Where  yonder  flocks  bend  low  their  heads  ; 

Darkness  awaits  with  mantle  gra}-, 

To  wrap  her  from  my  sight  away. 

Her  steadfast  e}Tes, — like  the  lake's  deep  blue, 
Are  lifted  in  worship, — the  evening  dews 
Like  tears  of  faith  are  trembling  there, 
As  she  solemnly  breathes  her  evening  prayer. 
Her  bosom  clothed  with  purple  heath, 
Her  mighty  hands  clasped  underneath, 
She  bends  her  forehead  to  the  sod, 
Thus,  face  to  face,  she  speaks  with  God. 


OUR  SOLDIERS'  GRAVES. 

Twine  lovely  wreaths  to  deck  the  honored  graves 
Where  sleep  the  ashes  of  our  noble  dead  ; 

Wreathe  the  dark  laurel,  green  as  ocean  waves, — 
With  reverence  place  it  o'er  each  patriot  head. 

Bring  our  loved  ensign,  o'er  them  let  it  wave, 

The  dear  "old  flag,"  beneath  whose  folds  they  fell; 

Long  may  the  nation  live  they  died  to  save, 
Bright  be  their  memory  who  died  so  well. 

For  the  dear  sacrifice  so  freely  given 

Here  let  the  nation  bow  itself  and  weep  ; 

Gently  let  falling  tears,  like  dews  of  heaven, 

Water  each  mound  where  our  brave  patriots  sleep. 

Place  a  white  tablet  o'er  each  noble  breast, 
And  let  their  glowing  record  there  be  found  ; 

This  be  our  Mecca,  where  our  soldiers  rest, 

Shield  we  from  impious  hands  each  sacred  mound. 

But  not  alone  to  him  of  high  renown 

Shall  paeans  rise  and  words  of  praise  be  given. 

Bring  brightest  laurels  for  the  dead  "  unknown," 
Whose  records,  lost  to  earth,  are  bright  in  heaven. 


HARRIET  N.  DONELERY.  207 

The  solemn  minute-gun,  the  warrior's  knell, 

For  them  is  booming  over  land  and  sea, 
While  o'er  their  graves  the  winds,  that  sigh  and  swell, 

Their  soft  and  mournful  requiem  shall  be. 

Rest,  savior  patriots,  in  your  narrow  beds, 
While  all  about  you  Nature's  voices  ring ; 

Far  brighter  crowns  await  your  noble  heads 
Than  the  sweet  tributes  which  we  hither  bring. 


Mrs.  Donelery,  a  daughter  of  Rev.  Stephen  Farley,  is  a  native  of  Claremont. 
While  an  operative  in  the  Lowell  mills  she  started  ana  edited  for  some  years  that 
unique  monthly  called  the  Lowell  Offering  or  Factory  Operatives'  Magazine,  She 
was  educated  at  the  Atkinson  Academy  of  which  her  father  was  principal,  after 
hij  removal  from  (Jlaremont,  where  he  had  been  settled  as  pastor  of  the  (Jougrega- 
tioual  Church  from  1800  to  1818.  She  had  nine  brothers  and  sisters,  all  of  whom 
have  died  of  pulmonary  disease.  She  became  the  wife  of  John  Uonelery,  Ksq.,  of 
Philadelphia. 


SUNSET. 

Come  with  me,  brother,  forth,  and  view  the  sun, 

How  he  goes  down  in  glory.     Brilliant  light 

Is  in  the  air :  and  brilliance  on  the  waves. 

Each  slight,  thin  cloud  is  now  irradiate, 

And,  'neath  our  feet  we  tread  the  only  shade. 

Thou  wast  not  here  last  eve ;  and  sawest  not 

His  other  glorious,  valedictory  suit. 

Downward  he  came — down,  from  the  chaos  thick 

Of  a  wild  storm,  which,  like  a  troubled  deep, 

Left  the  dark  sky,  and  sailed  into  a  smooth 

And  golden  sea,  which  shimmered  in  the  west ; 

Then,  downward  still,  behind  the  riven  cloud, 

Which,  like  a  massive,  broken  wall,  was  there 

Upon  the  horizon  low  ;  and,  even  like 

The  glowing  parapets  of  heaven,  was  rich 

In  ruby  and  in  amethystine  hues. 

Like  the'  hot  glow  of  living  fire  was  light 

Behind  that  bastion  cloud  ;  and  then  the  sun 

Went  down  below  the  earth,  while,  far  away, 

Gleaming  through  every  rift  and  broken  space, 

Spread  the  rich  mantling  blush,  and,  upward  there, 

Inverted  billows  of  the  deep  above 

Caught  on  their  hanging  heads  a  crimson  cap, 

And  hovered  like  a  gay  and  liveried  host, 

O'er  his  farewell  descent.     He  grows  not  old, 


208  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Like  temples  which  their  ruins  strew  around 
Us  here ;  but  fresh,  unworn,  and  strong,  as  in 
That  day  when  set  in  firmament  above. 
Brother,  he  now  has  bade  us  all  adieu, 
And  left  the  world  to  moonlight  and  to  dreams. 


ORILLA. 

Yes,  thou  art  bright  and  beautiful, 

Though  but  of  lowly  birth  ; 
Thou  takest,  with  all  jo}*ous  things, 

Thy  place  upon  the  earth  ; 
Thy  voice  is  song,  thy  step  a  dance, 

Thy  childish  tasks  but  play  ; 
Thou  sportest  with  the  birds  and  lambs, 

As  innocent  as  they. 

But  in  the  future  let  us  look, 

For  that  which  thou  rnay'st  hope  ; 
It  little  needs  divining  skill, 

Or  cast  of  horoscope  ; 
Th}r  simple  garb  bespeaks  a  life 

Of  ill-requited  toil  ; 
Thy  fate  has  linked  thee  to  a  band 

Who  ceaseless  delve  j^nd  moil. 


Thy  glowing  cheek,  thy  brow  so  full, 

Thy  softly  brilliant  eye, 
Tell  me  how  deeply  thou  must  share 

Our  woman's  destiny  : 
Thou'lt  love  and  grieve,  but  still  through  all 

Thou'lt  haplessly  live  on, 
And  learn  how  life  will  linger  still, 

When  all  its  joys  are  gone. 

Yes,  woman's  task  —  a  peasant's  wife 

I  there  before  thee  see,  • 

To  be  in  some  rude  hut  the  drudge, 

Some  clown's  divinity  ; 
To  rise  at  morn  with  early  sun, 

With  dew  and  opening  flowers, 
But  only  strjve  to  break  thy  fast 

In  all  those  glorious  hours. 

Thy  southern  sun  his  radiant  warmth 
Above  thy  cot  shall  shed, 


HARRIET  N.  DONELERT.  209 

And  thou'lt  rejoice,  because  thy  fire 

Need  not  so  oft  be  fed. 
Thy  clear,  bright  moon,  her  gentle  rays 

At  night  shall  o'er  thee  throw ; 
Thou'lt  bless  it  as  thine  only  lamp, 

When  to  thy  rest  thou'lt  go. 

And  yet,  of  all  that's  high  and  pure, 

Thou  shalt  not  be  divest, 
For  still  shall  beat  a  woman's  heart 

Warmly  within  thy  breast, 
Deeming  it  not  unworthy  lot 

To  live  for  others'  weal, 
For  others'  sakes  to  sacrifice, 

To  suffer  and  to  feel ; — 

To  know  that  through  thy  toil  and  care, 

Thy  strength,  though  weak  it  be, 
Has  been  support  and  cheer  to  him 

Who  guides  thy  destiny ; 
That  still,  though  poor  and  rude,  thou  hast 

A  share  in  many  a  heart ; 
That  peasant  mourners  o'er  thy  grave 

Will  weep  when  thou  depart. 


SONS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Read  at  2nd  N.  H.  Festival,  Boston,  Nov.  2, 1853. 

Sons  of  New  Hampshire  !  like  the  pilgrims  olden, 
Wandering  from  birth-place  to  a  better  home 

Bearing  still  on  the  ark,  and  angels  golden, 
In  whose  pure  worship  to  this  feast  you  come  : 

Sons  of  New  Hampshire  !  I,  a  daughter  lowly, 

Would  lay  my  "offering"  on  this  shrine  so  holy. 

My  orphan  mite !  the  love  that  ne'er  forgetting 
Those  heavens  that  met  at  first  my  wandering  eye, 

The  broad  green  vales,  and  old  Ascutney  setting 
His  glistening  brow  against  the  eternal  sky, 

The  mountains  high  in  the  far  distance  showing, 

The  broad  Connecticut,  in  grandeur  flowing. 

Sons  of  New  Hampshire  !  gathered  near  the  ocean, 
Where  many  lands  their  luxury  combine, 

Ma}T  it  not  be  another  "Boston  notion" 

That  this  is  better  than  those  homes  of  thine  ? 

Than  the  hard  soil,  with  all  its  mountain  grit, 

For  any  home  your  souls  and  frames  could  fit. 


2 1 0  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

But  from  the  altar  you  have  raised  so  beauteous, 
With  shorter  speed  than  sigh,  I  turn  away, 

Leaving  a  daughter's  heart  and  greeting  duteous, 
With  the  strong  brothers  gathered  here  to-day  ; 

Sons  of  New  Hampshire,  each  and  all,  adieu ; 

A  sister's  benison  I  leave  with  you. 


Miss  Shedd  was  a  native  of  Washington.  She  was  for  some  rears  an  operative 
in  the  mills  at  Lowell,  Mass.  At  her  decease,  in  1868,  she  left,  by  her  will,  $  2500, 
to  her  native  town  for  the  purchase  of  a  free  library.  The  library  is  a  great  bless 
ing  to  the  citizens  of  the  town,  containing  about  2000  valuable  books. 


AN  INDIAN  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT  ON  THE  BANKS  OF 
THE  SACO. 

A  maiden  came  with  a  queenly  air ; 
Her  eye  was  dark,  and  dark  was  her  hair ; 
On  the  rocky  banks  of  her  own  fair  stream 
She  sat  her  down  for  one  final  dream. 

O  strong  were  the  thoughts  o'er  her  bosom  that  rushed ! 
A  moment  she  spoke,  then  was  silent  and  hushed ; 
But  I  caught  up  the  words  of  her  wild,  sweet  lay 
Borne  on  the  breeze  as  they  floated  away. 

0  Saco,  blessed  Saco  !  my  childhood's  own  river ! 

I've  traced  all  thy  streamlets  with  bow  and  with  quiver. 
I've  tracked  the  wild  deer  as  he  sped  to  the  mountain, 
And  startled  the  hare  as  he  laved  in  thy  fountain. 

I've  wa'tched  the  bright  glow  of  each  foam-crested  billow, 
As  I  sat  on  th}-  banks  and  braided  the  willow. 
How  bright  was  the  sunshine,  how  golden  its  hue, 
As  I  danced  o'er  thy  waves  in  my  birchen  canoe. 

In  thy  broad  flowing  mirror  I've  braided  my  tresses, 
And  bound  my  long  hair  with  thy  wild  water  cresses, 
And  painted  my  cheek  with  the  breeze  from  thy  waters, 
And  joyed  that  they  called  me  a  brave  'mong  thy  daughters. 

How  I've  hushed  my  glad  heart,  and  stifled  its  beating 
To  list  the  glad  anthem  thou  art  ever  repeating ; 

1  thought  the  Great  Spirit  would  leave  thee,  no,  never ! 
•  That  1  near  thy  waters  should  wander  forever. 

No  more,  O,  no  more  shall  the  laugh  of  my  brother 
Blend  in  sweet  chorus,  nor  smile  of  my  mother 


SARAH  SHEDD.  211 


Light  thy  dark  wave  ;  my  tribe  have  departed 
And  left  me  a  lone  one,  say  not  broken  hearted. 

Like  thee,  kindred  Saco,  I  sing  in  my  sadness, 
The  pale  face  has  wronged  me,  I  yield  not  to  madness  ; 
My  father  a  chieftain  !  shall  I  his  proud  daughter 
Stoop  to  low  carnage,  or  think  now  of  slaughter? 

I  hear  thee,  obey  thee,  thou  great,  mighty  Spirit ; 
I  haste  to  the  land  where  my  fathers  inherit ; 
Farewell  thou  blest  Saco !  I  weep  and  adore  thee  ; 
I  bow  to  the  warning  and  pass  on  before  thee. 


OLD  DRAPER  HILL. 

Old  Draper  Hill !  Old  Draper  Hill, 
Peace  throbbing  heart,  be  still,  be  still, 
What  floods  of  memory  through  me  thrill 
At  thy  blest  name,  Old  Draper  Hill ! 

In  life's  young  hours  when  called  to  rise, 
When  day  sped  up  the  eastern  skies, 
I  turned  me  to  thy  forehead  fair, 
As  morning  broke  in  glory  there. 

How  often  since,  I've  climbed  thy  height 
With  friend  so  gay,  of  heart  so  light, 
To  drink  the  fragrant  morning  air, 
Grandeur  with  beauty  blending  there. 

Where  e'er  I  turn  with  graphic  eye, 
Some  hidden  memory  seems  to  lie, 
The  faces  fade,  the  forms  are  still, 
Thou  art  the  same  Old  Draper  Hill. 

A  grand  old  dome  there  Lovell  lies 
Piercing  with  rocky  crest  the  skies  ; 
While  sleeping  here  a  Mountain  Lake 
With  every  breeze  will  start  and  wake. 

From  out  its  breast  a  silver  rill 
Runs  rippling  round  the  dear  old  hill, 
Whose  strength  and  beauty  handicraft 
Compels  to  turn  a  ponderous  shaft ; 

Where  milk-white  cottages  appear 
And  flowers  their  tender  petals  rear. 
While  from  its  bounds  the  rill  is  seen, 
Winding  along  green  banks  between. 


212  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

A  village  here  lies  at  my  feet. 
My  native  village,  O  !  how  sweet ! 
Here  my  young  heart  was  taught  to  pray 
And  my  young  lips  what  words  to  say. 

I've  trod  by  sea,  by  mount,  and  been 
Familiar  in  the  haunts  of  men, 
But  dearest  find  the  place  and  joys 
Where  childhood  garnered  up  its  toys. 


Hiielia  J.  13.  Case. 


Mrs.  Case  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Lev!  Bartlett  and  a  grand-daughter  of  the 
revolutionary  patriot  Josiah  Bartlett.  She  was  a  native  of  Kingston,  and  in  1838 
was  married  to  E.  Case  then  of  Lowell.  They  removed  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  Mrs. 
Case's  poems  and  prose  writings  have  nearly  all  been  published  in  "Miscellanies, 
edited  by  her  friend,  the  late  Mrs.  Edgerton  Mayo." 


THE  DOOMED  RACE. 

Ay,  time  !  j*e  have  waned  like  the  phantom  hosts 

Of  morn  on  the  mist}*  lea  ; 
Your  arrow's  sharp  hurtle  hath  left  our  coasts, 

The  plash  of  your  oars  our  sea  ; 
Where  Metacom  strode  in  his  chieftain  pride 

The  wigwam  is  seen  no  more  ; 
And  long,  long  ago  hath  the  council-fire  died 

On  the  Old  Dominion's  shore. 

Your  trail  o'er  the  green  Alleghanian  vales 

Is  the  track  of  the  evening  dew, 
And  the  war-whoop  that  swells  on  the  prairie  gales 

Is  the  wail  of  the  faint  and  few. 
Ye  know  ye  are  doomed — a  perishing  race, 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  autumn  blast ; 
Ye  know  that  the  Saxon  is  waiting  your  place, 

And  ye  must  belong  to  the  past. 

The  arm  of  the  red  chief  is  weary  of  blood — 

His  heart  is  forgetting  its  hate  ; 
Too  long  hath  he  striven  to  baffle  the  flood 

Of  swift  and  remediless  fate. 
He  bows  to  the  current  he  may  not  stem 

With  a  spirit  all  torn  and  crushed  ; 
And  he  will  find  pity  where  men  condemn, 

When  his  dying  moan  is  hushed. 

Alas  for  ye,  people  of  little  light ! 
Your  prowess  so  stern  and  wild, 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE.  213 

Your  few  simple  virtues  will  pass,  and  night 

Envelope  the  forest  child  ; 
And  history  alone  in  some  mould}'  arch 

Enshrine  the  lost  Indian  brave  ; 
O,  sad  is  the  thought  that  mind's  triumph  march 

Must  be  o'er  a  nation's  grave  ! 


A  DEATH  SCENE. 

'Tis  evening's  hush :  the  first  faint  shades  are  creeping 
Through  the  still  room,  and  o'er  the  curtained  bed 

Where  lies  a  weary  one,  all  calmly  sleeping, 
Touched  with  the  twilight  of  the  land  of  dread. 

Death's  cold  gray  shadow  o'er  her  features  falling, 
Marks  her  upon  the  threshold  of  the  tomb  ; 

Yet  from  within  no  sight  nor  sound  appalling, 
Comes  o'er  her  spirit  with  a  thought  of  gloom. 

See,  on  her  palid  lip  bright  smiles  are  wreathing, 
While  from  the  tranquil  gladness  of  her  breast, 

Sweet,  holy  words  in  gentlest  tones  are  breathing : 
"  Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

Night  gathers  round — chill,  moonless,  yet  with  tender, 
Mild,  radiant  stars,  like  countless  angel-eyes, 

Bending  serenely,  from  their  homes  of  splendor, 
Above  the  couch  where  that  meek  dreamer  lies. 

The  hours  wear  on  :  the  shaded  lamp  burns  dimmer, 
And  ebbs  that  sleeper's  breath  as  wanes  the  night, 

And  still  with  looks  of  love  those  soft  stars  glimmer 
Along  their  pathways  of  unchanging  light. 

She  slumbers  still,  and  the  pale,  wasted  fingers 
Are  gently  raised,  as  if  she  dreamed  of  prayer; 

And  on  that  lip  so  wan  the  same  smile  lingers, 
And  still. those  trustful  words  are  trembling  there. 

The  night  is  done  ;  the  cold  and  solemn  dawning 
With  stately  tread  goes  up  the  eastern  sky ; 

But  vain  its  power,  and  vain  the  pomp  of  morning 
To  lift  the  darkness  from  that  dying  eye. 

Yet  Heaven's  full  jo}*  is  on  that  spirit  beaming ; 

The  soul  has  found  its  higher,  happier  birth, 
And  brighter  shapes  flit  through  its  blessed  dreaming 

Than  ever  gather  round  the  sleep  of  earth. 


2 1 4  POETS  OF  NEW  1L 1 MFRHIRE, 


The  sun  is  high,  but  from  those  pale  lips  parted, 
No  more  those  words  float  on  the  languid  breath, 

Yet  still  the  expression  of  the  happy-hearted 

Has  triumphed  o'er  the  mournful  shades  of  death. 

Through  the  hushed  room  the  midday  ray  has  wended 
Its  glowing  pinion  to  a  pulseless  breast : 

The  gentle  sleeper's  mortal  dreams  are  ended — 
The  soul  has  gone  to  Him  who  gives  it  rest. 


Harry  Hibbard  was  born  in  Concord,  Vt.,  June  1, 1816.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  18:53;  was  assistant  clerk  in  the  New  Hampshire  House  of  Repre 
sentatives  in  1830 ;  clerk  of  the  same  from  1840  to  1843 ;  speaker  of  the  House  in  1844 
and  1845;  a  member  of  the  State  Senate  from  1846  to  1849  and  was  President  of  that 
body  in  1848  and  1849.  He  was  a  Representative  in  Congress  from  this  State  from 
lS49~to  1855.  He  resided  in  Lancaster  and  lastly  in  Bath,  where  he  died  in  1873. 
The  poem  here  given  was  originally  published  in  the  Democratic  Review,  April, 
1XJ9,  and  has  beeu  extensively  read  and  justly  admired. 


FRANCONIA  MOUNTAIN  NOTCH. 

The  blackening  hills  close  round  :  the  beetling  cliff 
On  either  hand  towers  to  the  upper  sky. 
I  pass  the  lonely  inn  ;  the  yawning  rift 
Grows  narrower  still,  until  the  passer-by 
Beholds  himself  walled  in  by  mountains  high, 
Like  everlasting  barriers,  which  frown 
Around,  above,  in  awful  majesty : 
Still  on,  the  expanding  chasm  deepens  down. 
Into  a  vast  abyss  which  circling  mountains  crown. 

The  summer  air  is  cooler,  fresher,  here, 
The  breeze  is  hushed,  and  all  is  calm  and  still ; 
Above,  a  strip  of  the  blue  heaven's  clear 
Cerulean  is  stretched  from  hill  to  hill, 
Through  which  the  sun's  short  transit  can  distil 
No  breath  of  fainting  sultriness  ;  the  soul 
Imbued  with  love  of  nature's  charms,  can  fill 
Itself  with  meditation  here,  and  hold 
Communion  deep  with  all  that  round  it  doth  unfold. 

Thou  reader  of  these  lines,  who  dost  inherit 

That  love  of  earth's  own  loveliness  which  flings 

A  glow  of  chastened  feeling  o'er  the  spirit, 

And  lends  creation  half  its  colorings 

Of  light  and  beaut}* ;  who  from  living  things 

Dost  love  to  'scape  to  that  beatitude 

Which  from  converse  with  secret  nature  springs, 


\ 

HASH  T  H1EEAED.  215 

Fly  to  this  green  and  shady  solitude, 
High  hills,  clear  streams,  blue  lakes,  and  everlasting  wood. 

And  as  thou  musest  mid  these  mountains  wild, 
Their  grandeur  thy  rapt  soul  will  penetrate, 
Till  with  thyself  thou  wilt  be  reconciled, 
If  not  with  man  ;  thy  thoughts  will  emulate 
Their  calm  sublime,  thy  little  passions,  hate, 
Envj'ing  and  bitterness,  if  such  be  found 
Within  thy  breast,  these  scenes  will  dissipate, 
And  lend  thy  mind  a  tone  of  joy  profound, 
An  impress  from  the  grand  and  mighty  scenes  around. 

Here  doth  not  wake  that  thrill  of  awe ;  that  feeling 
Of  stern  sublimitj',  which  overpowers 
The  mind  and  sense  of  him  whose  foot  is  scaling 
The  near  White  Mountain  Notch's  giant  towers  ; 
Here  is  less  grandeur  but  more  beauty  ;  bowers 
For  milder,  varied  pleasure  ;  in  the  sun 
Blue  ponds  and  streams  are  glancing,  fringed  with  flowers ; 
There  all  is  vast  and  overwhelming  ;  one 
Is  Lafayette,  the  other,  matchless  Washington  ! 

Great  names  !  presiding  spirits  of  each  scene, 
Which  here  their  mountain  namesakes  overlook  ; 
'Tis  well  to  keep  their  memories  fresh  and  green 
By  thus  inscribing  them  within  the  book 
Of  earth's  enduring  records,  where  will  look 
Our  children's  children  ;  till  the  crumbling  hand 
Of  time  wastes  all  things  ;  every  verdant  nook 
And  every  crag  of  these  proud  hills  shall  stand 
Their  glory's  emblems  o'er  our  proud  and  happy  land ! 

Where  a  tall  post  beside  the  road  displays 
Its  lettered  arm,  pointing  the  traveller's  eye, 
Through  the  small  opening  mid  the  green  birch  trees, 
Toward  yonder  mountain  summit  towering  high, 
There  pause  :  what  doth  thy  anxious  gaze  espy  ? 
An  abrupt  crag  hung  from  the  mountain's  brow ! 
Look  closer !  scan  that  bare,  sharp  cliff  on  high  ; 
Aha !  the  wondrous  shape  bursts  on  thee  now ! 
A  perfect  human  face — neck,  chin,  mouth,  nose  and  brow ! 

And  full  and  plain  those  features  are  displayed, 
Thus  profiled  forth  against  the  clear,  blue  sky, 
As  though  some  sculptor's  chisel  here  had  made 
This  fragment  of  colossal  imagery, 
The  compass  of  his  plastic  art  to  try. 


216  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

From  the  curved  neck  up  to  the  shaggy  hail- 
That  shoots  in  pine  trees  from  the  head  on  high, 
All,  all  is  perfect ;  no  illusions  there 
To  cheat  the  expecting  eye  with  fancied  forms  of  air. 

Most  wondrous  vision  !  the  broad  earth  hath  not 
Through  all  her  bounds  an  object  like  to  thee, 
That  traveller  e'er  recorded,  nor  a  spot 
More  fit  to  stir  the  poet's  phantas}'. 
Gray  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  awfully 
There  from  thy  wreath  of  clouds  thou  dost  uprear 
Those  features  grand,  the  same  eternally  ; 
Lone  dweller  mid  the  hills  !  with  gaze  austere 
Thou  lookest  down,  methinks,  on  all  below  thee  here  ! 

And  curious  travellers  have  descried  the  trace 
Of  the  sage  Franklin's  physiognom}r 
In  that  most  grave  and  philosophic  face  ; 
If  it  be  true,  Old  Man,  that  we  do  see 
Sage  Franklin's  countenance,  thou  indeed  must  be 
A  learned  philosopher,  most  wise  and  staid, 
From  all  that  thou  hast  had  a  chance  to  see, 
Since  earth  began.     Here  thou,  too,  oft  hast  played 
With  lightnings,  glancing  frequent  round  thy  rugged  head. 

Thou  sawest  the  tawny  Indian's  light  canoe 
Glide  o'er  the  pond  that  glistens  at  thy  feet, 
And  the  white  hunter  first  emerge  to  view 
From  up  yon  ravine  where  the  mountains  meet, 
To  scare  the  red  man  from  his  ancient  seat, 
Where  he  had  roamed  for  ages,  wild  and  free. 
The  motley  stream  which  since  from  ever}'  state 
And  clime  through  this  wild  vale  pours  ceaselessl}', 
Travellers,  gay  tourists,  all  have  been  a  theme  to  thee. 

In  thee  the  simple-minded  Indian  saw 
The  image  of  his  more  benignant  God, 
And  viewed  with  deep  and  reverential  awe 
The  spot  where  the  Great  Spirit  made  abode  ; 
When  storms  obscured  thee,  and  red  lightnings  glowed 
From  the  dark  clouds  oft  gathered  round  th}-  face, 
He  saw  thy  form  in  anger  veiled,  nor  rowed 
His  birchen  bark,  nor  sought  the  wild  deer  chase, 
Till  thy  dark  frown  had  passed,  and  sunshine  filled  its  place. 

Oh  !  that  some  bard  would  rise,  true  heir  of  glory, 
With  the  full  power  of  heavenh"  poesy, 
To  gather  up  each  old  romantic  story 


HARE  Y  HIBBAED.  2 1 7 


That  lingers  round  these  scenes  in  memory, 
And  consecrate  to  immortality  ; 
Some  western  Scott,  within  whose  bosom  thrills 
That  fire  which  burneth  to  eternity, 
To  pour  his  spirit  o'er  these  mighty  hills, 
And  make  them  classic  ground,  thrice  hallowed  by  his  spells. 

But  backward  turn — the  wondrous  shape  hath  gone ! 
The  round  hill  towers  before  thee,  smoothly  green  ; 
Pass  but  a  few  short  paces  farther  on, 
Naught  but  the  ragged  mountain  side  is  seen. 
Thus  oft  do  earthly  things  delude,  I  ween, 
That  in  prospective  glitter  bright  and  fair, 
While  time  or  space  or  labor  intervene. 
Approach  them,  every  charm  dissolves  to  air, 
Each  gorgeous  hue  hath  fled,  and  all  is  rude  and  bare. 

And  trace  yon  streamlet  down  the  expanding  gorge, 
To  the  famed  Basin  close  beside  the  way, 
Scooped  from  the  rock  by  its  imprisoned  surge, 
For  ages  whirling  in  its  foamy  spray, 
Which,  issuing  hence,  shoots  gladly  into  day, 
Till  the  broad  Merrimack  it  proudly  flows, 
And  into  ocean  pours  a  rival  sea, 
Gladdening  fair  meadows  as  it  onward  goes, 
Where,  mid  the  trees,  rich  towns  their  heavenward  spires  dis 
close. 

And  farther  down,  from  Garnsey's  lone  abode, 
By  a  rude  footpath  climb  the  mountain  side, 
Leaving  below  the  traveller's  winding  road, 
To  where  the  cleft  hill  yawns  abrupt  and  wide, 
As  though  some  earthquake  did  its  mass  divide 
In  olden  time  ;  there  view  the  rocky  Flume, 
Tremendous  chasm  !  rising  side  by  side, 
The  rocks  abrupt  wall  in  the  long,  high  room, 
Echoing  the  wild  stream's  roar,  and  dark  with  vapory  gloom. 

But  long,  too  long,  I've  dwelt  as  in  a  dream, 
Amid  these  scenes  of  high  sublimity : 
Another  pen  must  eternize  the  theme 
Mine  has  essayed,  though  all  unworthily. 
Franconia  !  thy  wild  hills  are  dear  to  me, 
Would  their  green  woods  might  be  my  spirit's  home ; 
Oft  o'er  the  stormy  waste  of  memory 
Shall  I  look  back  where'er  I  chance  to  roam, 
And  see  their  shining  peaks  rise  o'er  its  angry  foam. 


218  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Thomas  R.  Crosby  was  born  in  Gilmanton,  October  22,  181(5.  In  1841  he  was  grad 
uated  from  both  the  Academical  and  Medical  Departments  of  Dartmouth  College. 
He  was  professor  in  Norwich  University  from  1854  to  18C>4  ;  in  Milwaukee  Medical 
College  from  18(54  to  1871  ;  in  New  Hampshire  Agricultural  College  in  1870,  until  his 
death,  at  Hanover,  March  1,  1872. 


TO  THE  MERRIMAC  RIVER, 

AT  THE  FALLS  OF  THE  AM-AUH-NOUR-SKEAG. 

Roll  on,  bright  stream  ! 

And  ever  thus,  from  earliest  time,  thou'st  leaped 
And  played  amid  these  caverned,  sounding  rocks, 
When  the  long  summer's  sun  hath  tamed  thy  power 
To  gentleness  ;  or,  roused  from  th}'  long  sleep, 
Hast  cast  thy  wintry  fetters  off,  and  swept, 
In  wild,  tumultuous  rage,  along  th}'  course, 
Flinging  the  white  foam  high  from  out  thy  path, 
And  shaking  to  their  very  centre  earth's 
Foundation  stones.     And,  in  thine  awful  might, 
When  terror  rides  thy  wildly-heaving  wave, 
Or  in  thy  soft  and  gentle  flow,  when  break 
The  ripples  on  thy  sandy  shore,  in  sweet, 
Delicious  music,  as  of  fair}'  bells, 
How  beautiful  art  thou  !  And  since  that  first 
Glad  hour,  when  morning  stars  together  sang, 
Each  rising  sun,  with  dewy  e}'e,  hath  looked 
On  thee.     Each  full-orbed  moon  hath  smiled  to  see 
Herself  thrown  back  in  pencilled  loveliness, 
Mirrored  a  mimic  disk  of  light,  beneath 
Thy  pure  and  limpid  wave,  or  broken  else 
Into  a  myriad  crystal  gems,  flung  high, 
In  sparkling  jets  or  gilded  spra}',  towards  heaven. 
And  long  ere  on  thy  shores  the  white  man  trod, 
And  wove  the  magic  chain  of  human  will 
Around  thy  free  and  graceful  flood,  and  tamed 
Its  power  to  minister  to  human  good, 
The  Indian  roamed  along  thy  wooded  banks, 
And  listened  to  thy  mighty  voice  with  awe. 
He,  too,  untutored  in  the  schoolman's  lore, 
And  conversant  with  nature's  works  alone, 
More  deep,  true,  reverent  worship  paid  to  thee 
Than  does  his  fellow- man  who  boasts  a  faith 
More  pure,  an  aim  more  high,  a  nobler  hope — 
Yet,  in  his  soul,  is  filled  with  earth-born  lusts. 
The  Indian  loved  thee  as  a  gift  divine. 


THOMAS  RUSSELL  CROSBY.  219 

To  him  them  flow'dst  from  the  blest  land  that  smiled 

Behind  the  sunset  hills — the  Indian  heaven, 

Where,  on  bright  plains,  eternal  sunlight  fell, 

And  bathed  in  gold  the  hills,  and  dells,  and  woods, 

Of  the  blest  hunting-grounds.     With  joy  he  drew 

The  finny  stores  from  out  thy  swarming  depths, 

Or  floated  o'er  thee  in  his  light  canoe, 

And  blessed  the  kindly  hand  that  gave  him  thee, 

A  never-failing  good,  a  fount  of  life 

And  blessing  to  his  race.     And  thou  to  him 

Didst  image  forth  the  crystal  stream  that  flows 

From  "out  the  throne  of  God,  and  of  the  Lamb," 

The  Christian's  "water  of  the  life  divine." 

Thy  source  was  in  the  spirit-peopled  clouds, 

And  to  his  untaught  fancy  thou  didst  spring 

Fresh  from  Manitou's  hands — the  o'erflowing  hand 

From  which  all  blessing  comes,  alike  to  him 

Whose  teaching  comes  from  rude,  material  things, 

Who  worships  neath  the  clear  blue  dome  of  heaven, 

As  him  who  in  a  sculptured  temple  prays. 

And  tbou,  bright  river  in  thy  ceaseless  flow, 

Hast  mirrored  many  a  passing  scene  would  charm 

The  painter's  e}*e,  would  fire  the  poet's  soul ; 

For  beauty  of  the  wild,  free  wood  and  floods 

Is  yet  more  beautiful  when  far  removed 

From  the  loud  din  of  toil,  that  e'er  attends 

The  civilizing  march  of  Saxon  blood, 

And  poetiy,  unversed  indeed,  and  rude, 

But  full  of  soul- wrought,  thrilling  harmony, 

Hath  spoken  in  thy  murmur  or  thy  roar ; 

And  human  hearts,  through  long,  swift-gliding  years, 

Have  made  the  valley  thou  hast  blessed  their  home, 

Where  they  have  lived,  and  loved,  and  joyed,  and  hoped, 

Nay,  passed  through  all  that  makes  the  sum  of  life, 

Of  human  life,  in  every  clime  and  age. 

Along  thy  shaded  banks,  in  grim  array, 

Wild  bands  of  "braves,"  as  fearless  and  as  true 

As  ever  sought  a  deadly  foeman's  blade, 

Or  battled  nobly  in  a  country's  cause, 

With  step  as  silent  as  the  grave,  have  sped, 

In  lengthened  files,  to  strife,  and  blood,  and  death. 

In  that  sweet  dell,  where  giant  trees  o'erhang 

Thy  soft,  encircling  waA'e,  the  council-fires 

Have  blazed.     There  silent,  stern,  grave-visaged  men 

Have  sat  the  magic  circle  round  and  smoked 

The  calumet  of  peace  ;  or  youths,  in  wild 


220  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Exciting  dance,  with  battle  songs  and  shouts, 

With  flashing,  arms,  and  well-feigned,  earnest  strife, 

Have  acted  the  sad  mimicry  of  war. 

To  yonder  sheltered  nook,  where,  still  and  calm, 

The  chafed  and  wearied  waters  rest  awhile 

Behind  a  rock}'  point,  on  which  the  waves 

Break  ever,  with  a  music  soft  and  sweet, 

And  neath  the  shadows  of  tall,  sighing  pines, 

That,  in  the  fiercest  noon,  create  a  soft, 

Cool,  cloistered  light  upon  the  sward  beneath, 

The  dusk}-  brave,  fierce  now  no  more,  hath  stolen 

Oft  at  the  twilight  hour,  and  when  the  young 

New  moon  hath  tipped,  with  silver,  bough,  and  rock, 

And  wave,  to  murmur  into  willing  ears 

Love's  witching  story,  told  full  oft,  yet  new 

As  when  'twas  whispered  in  fair  Eden's  bowers. 

Sweet  Merrimac  !     For  ages  thus  the  stream 

Of  human  life  ran  on  with  thine,  yet  not 

As  thine ;  for  thou  art  as  thou  wast  of  old, 

When  first  the  Indian  chased  along  thy  banks. 

But  where  is  now  the  red  man,  true  and  brave? 

Alas  !  where  once  the  child  of  nature  trod, 

Unquestioned  monarch  of  the  land  and  wave, 

The  many-towered,  busy  city  stands  ! 

Hills  that  threw  back  the  war-whoop's  fearful  peal, 

When  filled  was  this  fair  vale  with  sounds  of  strife, 

Now  echo  to  the  engine's  shriller  scream, 

As  swift  and  strong  it  flies,  with  goodly  freight 

Of  life  and  merchandise  !  By  thy  fair  stream 

The  red  man  roams  no  more.     No  more  he  snares 

The  artful  trout,  or  lordly  salmon  spears ; 

No  more  his  swift-winged  arrow  strikes  the  deer. 

Toward  the  setting  sun,  with  faltering  limb 

And  glaring  e3Te,  he  seeks  a  distant  home, 

Where  withering  foot  of  white  man  ne'er  can  come. 

And  thy  wild  water,  Merrimac,  is  tamed, 

And  bound  in  servile  chains  which  mind  has  forged 

To  bind  the  stubborn  earth,  the  free-winged  air, 

The  heaving  ocean,  and  the  rushing  stream, 

Th'  obedient  servants  of  a  mightier  will, 

E'en  as  a  spirit  caught  in  earth-born  toils, 

As  legends  tell,  and  doomed  to  slave  for  him 

Who  holds  the  strong,  mysterious  bond  of  power. 

And  thou  art  now  the  wild,  free  stream  no  more, 

Playing  all  idly  in  thy  channels  old  ; 

Thy  days  of  sportive  beauty  and  romance 


HOE  A  TIO  HALE.  221 


Are  gone.     Yet,  harnessed  to  thy  daity  toil, 
And  all  thy  powers  controlled  by  giant  mind, 
And  right  directed,  thou'rt  a  spirit  still, 
And  workest  mightily  for  human  good, 
Changing,  in  thine  abundant  alchemy, 
All  baser  things  to  gold. 


i^oratto 


Horatio  Hale,  the  son  of  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale,  was  born  in  Newport,  May  3, 1817. 
He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1837.  He  accompanied  the  U.  S.  Exploring 
Expedition  under  Capt.  Wilkes,  as  philologist,  and  on  his  return  the  result  of  his 
explorations  was  published  in  the  seventh  volume  of  Expedition  Report,  entitled, 
"Ethnology  and  Philology,"  a  work  of  great  labor  and  research.  Mr.  Hale  resides 
at  Clinton,  Province  of  Ontario. 


THE  EAGLE'S  SPEECH. 

An  eagle  came  from  his  eyrie  down, 
On  the  loftiest  peak  of  Monadnoc's  crown  ; 
The  flash  of  his  dark  eye  was  terribly  bright, 
As  the  marsh  fire's  gleam  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  the  war-darts  shook  in  his  red  right  claw, 
But  the  bough  of  peace  in  his  left  I  saw. 

Then  slowly  he  opened  his  ivory  beak, 
And  he  stood  like  a  senator  ready  to  speak  ; 
And  the  forests  shook,  and  the  winds  grew  still, 
And  hushed  was  the  voice  of  the  noisy  rill ; 
And  the  raven  cowered  in  his  hollow  oak, 
As  well  he  might  when  the  eagle  spoke. 

I  am  the  monarch  of  air,  said  he ; 

Proudly  I  soar  over  land  and  sea  ; 

And  I  feel  the  breezes  around  me  sing 

To  the  hurricane  sweep  of  my  mighty  wing  ; 

And  my  flight  is  chaiuless,  and  fearless,  and  free, 

For  I  am  the  bright  bird  of  Liberty  ! 

I  marshal  the  course  of  the  free  and  the  brave, 
Upward  and  onward,  o'er  mountain  and  wave  ; 
I  lead  them  to  glory,  I  beckon  them  on, 
And  I  join  in  the  din  till  the  battle  is  won  ; 
And  the  dim  eye  will  gladden  my  shadow  to  see, 
For  I  am  the  bright  bird  of  Liberty  ! 

In  the  days  of  old,  with  the  freemen  of  Rome, 
With  Brutus  and  Cato  I  made  me  a  home  ; 
And  my  wing  was  before  them  unwearied  and  fleet, 
Till  the  princes  of  earth  were  all  low  at  their  feet, 


222  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  the  Roman  was  master  by  land  and  by  sea, 
For  he  followed  the  bright  bird  of  Liberty ! 

But  luxury  came,  like  the  simoom's  hot  breath, 

And  the  flowers  were  all  withered  in  valor's  green  wreath, 

And  virtue  was  trampled  and  hustled  aside 

By  the  pageant  of  guilt  and  the  purple  of  pride  ; 

But  fetters,  though  gilded,  are  hateful  to  me, 

So  I  fled  to  the  mountains  for  Liberty  ! 

Then  ages  went  by,  till  Muscovia's  czar, 

In  hatred  determined  my  glory  to  mar ; 

So  he  seized  me,  and  chained  me,  and  struck  off  my  head, 

But  courteously  gave  me  two  others  instead  ; 

My  own  noble  beauty  he  never  could  see, 

For  most  loathsome  to  despots  is  Liberty ! 

But  tyranny's  chains  are  too  feeble  to  bind, 
\Vhen  the  will  is  unfettered,  unbroken  the  mind ; 
So  I  made  my  adieus,  with  a  veiy  bad  grace, 
And  I  threw  my  superfluous  head  in  his  face  ; 
And  southward  I  sped,  over  forest  and  sea, 
To  France,  the  bright  region  of  Liberty  ! 

Oh,  this  was  my  season  of  triumph  and  pride, 
On  the  smoke-wreath  of  battle  'twas  glory  to  ride, 
Till  kingdoms  were  shattered,  and  despots  o'erthrown, 
And  the  hero  of  destiny  called  me  his  own ; 
Of  the  masters  of  earth  none  so  mighty  as  he, 
For  they  loved  not  the  bright  bird  of  Liberty  ! 

But  the  warrior  was  dazzled  by  glory's  red  ray, 
And  forgot  the  mild  lustre  of  freedom's  new  day, 
Till  pontiff  and  tyrant  arose  from  the  shock, 
And  the  hero  was  chained  on  the  far  ocean-rock, 
And  the  slaves  who  forsook  him  bent  lowly  the  knee 
To  the  tyrants  who  trample  on  Liberty  ! 

So  I  parted  in  scorn  from  the  land  of  the  slave, 
And  1  found  me  an  eyrie  beyond  the  broad  wave : 
"With  Columbia's  children  I  made  me  a  home  ; 
And  wider  than  Russia,  and  greater  than  Rome, 
And  prouder  than  Gaul  shall  their  fatherland  be, 
If  they  cherish  the  bright  bird  of  Liberty ! 


LINES  FOR  MY  COUSIN'S  ALBUM. 

Nay,  ask  me  not  how  long  it  be 

Since  love's  sweet  witchery  on  me  stole  : 


BENJAMIN  D.  LAIGHTON.  223 

In  truth  it  always  seemed  to  me 

A  portion  of  my  very  soul ; 
I  know  the  springs,  where  love  was  nursed, 
But  ask  not  when  it  blossomed  first. 

'Twas  not  beneath  the  cloudless  skies 
Of  youth's  sweet  summer ;  long  before, 

The  sunshine  of  those  gentle  eyes 
Had  waked  the  tender  flower, 

And  from  its  breathing  censer  cup 

Had  drawn  its  purest  incense  up. 

'Twas  not  in  childhood's  merry  May, 
When  dews  were  fresh  and  skies  were  fair, 

And  life  was  one  long  sunny  day, 
Undimmed  by  thought  or  care  ; 

Oh  no !  the  stream  whence  love  is  fed 

Is  deepest  at  the  fountain-head. 

And  feeling's  purest,  holiest  flowers 

Are  brightest  in  life's  earliest  dawn, 
But  fade  when  come  the  sultry  hours 

Of  noontide  splendor  on. 
The  heart's  fine  music  sweetest  rings 
Ere  manhood's  tears  have  dulled  the  strings. 

I  think  my  being  and  my  love, 

Like  oak  and  vine  together  sprung, 
And  bough  and  tendril  interwove, 

And  round  my  heart-strings  clung  ; 
Oh  !  never,  till  life's  latest  sigh, 
Shall  aught  unclasp  the  gentle  tie. 


USenjamin  3D.  Haigijton. 

Benjamin  D.  Laighton,  a  brother  of  Albert  Laighton,  was  born  in  Portsmouth  in 
1817.  For  about  twenty-five  years  he  carried  on  the  farming  business  in  Stratham. 
He  died  in  his  native  city  in  1873. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  MAY. 

Awake,  my  Muse  !  no  longer  sleep  ! 

Once  more  thy  sweetest  numbers  bring ; 
The  earth  a  second  eden  shows  : 

Awake,  and  sing  the  charms  of  Spring ! 

The  orchards  redolent  of  bloom, 
The  singing  birds,  the  balmy  air, 


924  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  bright  green  fields,  the  warbling  brooks, - 
To  me,  all  seem  divinely  fair ! 

No  clouds  in  }*on  o'er  arching  sky 
To  hide  the  sun's  enlivening  rays  ; 

No  wintry  winds  to  chill  my  frame, 
And  interrupt  my  song  of  praise. 

Once  more  upon  my  wan,  worn -cheek, 
I  feel  the  soft  ambrosial  breeze, 

And  list  the  aerial  harmony 

That  floats  amid  the  blossomed  trees. 

Reclined  upon  some  grassy  steep 
That  overlooks  the  billowy  sea, 

I  love  to  watch  the  dark-blue  waves, 
And  hear  their  deep-toned  melody. 

When  on  the  earth  night's  shadows  fall, 
Above  I  gaze  with  wondering  eyes  ; 

On  Fancy's  wing  delighted  soar, 

To  pierce  the  mysteries  of  the  skies, 

Still  on,  above  the  rolling  spheres, 
To  where  resides  the  omniscient  God, — 

The  starry  realm  below  is  but 
The  jewelled  floor  of  his  abode  ! 

Oh !  then  in  awe  and  rapture  whelmed, 
I  seek, within  that  radiant  sphere, 

Those  friends  so  fondly  loved  on  earth, 
Whose  graves  received  affection's  tear. 

My  harp  !  with  thy  sweet  harmonies 

There  comes  a  low  and  dirge-like  strain, 

That  falls  upon  my  listening  ear 
Like  murmur  of  the  distant  main. 

It  ma}-  no  more  be  mine,  my  harp ! 

To  wake  thy  soothing  melodj- : 
Perchance,  when  Spring  shall  come  again, 

Silence  and  dust  may  on  me  lie. 

Be  mine  the  blissful  hope  that  points, 
Beyond  the  drear  and  shadowy  tomb, 

To  that  fair  clime  where  the  freed  soul 
Shall  flourish  in  immortal  bloom  ! 


SAMUEL  C.  BALDWIN.  22f> 

STANZAS. 

When  the  last  struggle's  o'er,     The  sun  shall  rise  and  set ; 

And  life  this  frame  hath  fled  ;      Its  shores  the  ocean  lave ; 
When  I  shall  live  no  more,         The  grass  with  dews  be  wet, 

But  lie  in  my  last  bed  ;  That  grows  above  my  grave. 

Shall  I  for  ever  sleep,  The  years  will  come  and  go, 

A  senseless  mass  of  clay,  The  past  be  acted  o'er ; 

No  more  on  earth  to  greet         And  yet  my  sleep  below 
The  light  of  opening  day? —      Will  be  disturbed  no  more. 

The  fingers  of  decay  Bright  star  of  faith,  arise  ! 

Deep-buried  in  my  breast,          And  guide  me  to  the  way 

Must  waste  my  flesh  away  That  leads  beyond  the  skies, 

While  I  unconscious  rest.  To  the  unclouded  day ! 


Samuel  (ft.  i3attrtom. 


Samuel  C.  Baldwin  was  born  In  Newport,  Sept.  15,  1817.  At  an  early  age  he 
learned  the  trade  of  a  printer.  For  a  few  years  he  published,  with  his  brother 
Henry  E.,  the  Argus  and  Spectator.  Subsequently  he  went  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  and 
published  the  Advertiser.  In  1844  he  removed  to  Plymouth  in  that  state  and  was 
publisher  of  the  Plymouth  Rock.  Afterwards  he  removed  to  Meredith  and  became 
proprietor  of  the  New  Hampshire  Democrat.  He  died  in  that  town  Dec.  3, 1861. 


THE  VOICES  OF  OCEAN. 

Eternal  sea !  thy  solemn  voice  has  spoken 

To  human  listeners  since  time  began  ; 
Since  the  dark  silence  of  old  Night  was  broken, 

And,  mid  angelic  songs,  was  born  the  Infant  Man. 

And  thou  art  chanting  still  thy  ceaseless  anthem, 
With  which  thou  hushed  the  ancient  world  to  sleep  ; 

Thy  varied  note  to  human  hearts  responsive, 
Mournful  or  glad,  thou  vast,  mysterious  deep. 

Thy  out-stretched  arms  the  mariner  encircle, 
Now,  as  when  first  the  Tyrian  trusted  thee  ; 

Launched  his  rude  bark  upon  thy  unknown  bosom — 
The  "ancient  mariner"  of  the  tideless  sea. 

Thou  wert  the  same  in  days  of  classic  story, 

When  Persia's  m}rriads  sought  the  Hellenic  strand  ; 

And  thou  rehearsest  still  the  Athenian's  glory. 
The  fame  of  Sparta,  martial,  cold,  and  grand ! 

Thy  voice  inspired  the  hardy  Roman  legion, 

Before  whose  conquering  march  a  world  might  flee  ; 


226  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  Roman  sceptre  swayed  a  world-dominion, 
His  tireless  eagles  only  paused  by  thee. 

When,  as  a  spirit  tries  the  unknown  future, 

O'er  thy  wide  waste  the  great  discoverer  passed- 

His  the  true  genius,  great  high  priest  to  nature, 
Who  gave  to  man  the  western  world  at  last — 

Did  not  thy  voice,  from  eastern  shores  resounding, 
To  western  climes  the  paean  note  prolong? 

And  Indian  cave  and  rocky  cliff  surrounding, 
Re-echo  back  again  old  Ocean's  song? 

Thus  hast  thou  ever  spoke,  as  now  thou  speakest, 
In  voices  eloquent  and  most  sublime, 

Thou,  ever-changing,  and  yet  ever  changeless, 
Thou  emblem  of  eternity,  in  time. 

Would  he  but  listen  to  thine  admonition, 

Unresting  man,  oh !  he  might  learn  of  thee — 

Seen  through  all  time,  in  limitless  duration — 
The  changeless  purposes  of  Deity. 


James 


James  T.  Fields  was  born  in  Portsmouth  in  1817.  While  yet  a  child  he  lost  his 
father,  a  sea-captain.  He  became  a  clerk  in  a  Boston  bookstore,  though  he  hatl 
been  fitted  for  college  and  his  tastes  were  literary.  Successful  as  a  publisher,  he 
withdrew  from  business  in  1863,  and  attained  a  high  popularity  as  a  lecturer.  In 
his  few  poems  he  shows  a  delicate  fancy  and  a  flue  lyrical  vein.  Since  his  death, 
in  1880,  a  volume  of  his  poetry,  "Ballads  and  other  verses,"  has  been  published. 
He  was  also  the  anther  of  "Yesterdays  With  Authors,"  "Underbrush,"  and,  with 
K.  P.  Whipple,  edited  "The  Family  Library  of  British  Poetry." 


THE  OWL-CRITIC. 

"  Who  stuffed  that  white  owl?"     No  one  spoke  in  the  shop  : 

The  barber  was  busy,  and  he  could'nt  stop  ; 

The  customers,  waiting  their  turns,  were  al!  reading 

The  "  Daily,"  the  "  Herald,"  the  "  Post,"  little  heeding 

The  young  man  who  blurted  out  such  a  blunt  question  ; 

Not  one  raised  a  head,  or  even  made  a  suggestion  ; 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Mr.  Brown," 

Cried  the  youth,  with  a  frown, 

"  How  wrong  the  whole  thing  is, 

How  preposterous  each  wing  is, 

How  flattened  the  head  is,  how  jammed  down  the  neck  is — 

In  short,  the  whole  owl,  what  an  ignorant  wreck  'tis  ! 


JAMES  T.  FIELDS, 


227 


I  make  no  apology  ; 

I've  learned  owl-eology. 

I've  passed  days  and  nights  in  a  hundred  collections, 

And  cannot  be  blinded  to  any  deflections 

Arising  from  unskilful  fingers  that  fail 

To  stuff  a  bird  right,  from  his  beak  to  his  tail. 

Mister  Brown  !  Mister  Brown  ! 

Do  take  that  bird  down, 

Or  you'll  soon  be  the  laughing-stock  all  over  town  !  " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 


"  I've  studied  owls, 
And  other  night  fowls, 
And  I  tell  }~ou 
What  I  know  to  be  true  ; 
An  owl  cannot  roost 
With  his  limbs  so  unloosed 
No  owl  in  this  world 
Ever  had  his  claws  curled, 
Ever  had  his  legs  slanted, 


Ever  had  his  bill  canted, 
Ever  had  his  neck  screwed 
Into  that  attitude. 
He  can't  do  it,  because 
Tis  against  all  bird-laws. 
Anatomy  teaches, 
Ornithology  preaches 
An  owl  has  a  toe 
That  can't  turn  out  so ! 


I've  made  the  white  owl  my  study  for  years, 
And  to  see  such  a  job  almost  moves  me  to  tears ! 


Mister  Brown,  I'm  amazed 
You  should  be  so  gone  crazed 


As  to  put  up  a  bird 
In  that  posture  absurd  ! 


To  look  at  that  owl  really  brings  on  a  dizziness ; 

The  man  who  stuffed  him  don't  half  know  his  business  ! " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 


"  Examine  those  eyes. 
I'm  filled  with  surprise 
Taxidermists  should  pass 
Off'  on  you  such  poor  glass  ; 
So  unnatural  they  seem 


They'd  make  Audubon  scream, 
And  John  Burrows  laugh 
To  encounter  such  chaff. 
Do  take  that  bird  down  ; 
Have  him  stuffed  again,  Brown  !" 
And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

With  some  sawdust  and  bark     I  could  make  an  old  hat 
I  could  stuff  in  the  dark  Look  more  like  an  owl 

An  owl  better  than  that.  Than  that  horrid  fowl, 

Stuck  up  there  so  stiff  like  a  side  of  coarse  leather. 
In  fact,  about  him  there's  not  one  natural  feather." 

Just  then,  with  a  wink  and  a  sly  normal  lurch, 
The  owl,  very  gravely,  got  down  from  his  perch, 
Walked  round,  and  regarded  his  fault-finding  critic 
(Who  thought  he  was  stuffed)  with  a  glance  anatytic, 
And  then  fairly  hooted,  as  if  he  should  say :. 


228  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

"  Your  learning's  at  fault  this  time,  any  way  ; 

Don't  waste  it  again  on  a  live  bird,  I  pray. 

I'm  an  owl ;  you're  another.     Sir  Critic,  good  day  ! " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 


THE  SEARCH. 

"Give  me  the  girl  whose  lips  disclose, 
Whene'er  she  speaks,  rare  pearls  in  rows, 
And  yet  whose  words  more  genuine  are 
Than  pearls  or  any  shining  star. 

Give  me  those  silver}'  tones  that  seem 
An  angel's  singing  in  a  dream, — 
A  presence  beautiful  to  view, 
A  seraph's,  yet  a  woman's  too. 

Give  me  that  one  whose  temperate  mind 
Is  always  toward  the  good  inclined, 
Whose  deeds  spring  from  her  soul  unsought, — 
Twin-born  of  grace  and  artless  thought ; 

Give  me  that  spirit, — seek  for  her 

To  be  my  constant  minister  ! " 

Dear  friend, — I  heed  your  earnest  prayers, — 

I'll  call  your  lovely  wife  down-stairs. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep, — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence, — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, — 

"  We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 


JAMES  T.  FIELDS.  229 


But  his  little  daughter  whispered 
As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 

"  Is  not  God  upon  the  ocean, 
Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?  " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer ; 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


THE  LOVER'S  PERIL. 

Have  I  been  ever  wrecked  at  sea, 

And  nigh  to  being  drowned  ? 
More  threatning  storms  have  compassed  me 

Than  on  the  deep  are  found  ! 

What  coral-reefs  her  dangerous  lips  ! — 

My  bark  was  almost  gone — 
Hope  plunged  away  in  dim  eclipse, 

And  black  the  night  rolled  on. 

What  seas  are  like  her  whelming  hair, 
That  swept  me  o'er  and  o'er?  — 

I  heard  the  waters  of  despair 

Crash  round  the  frightened  shore  ! 

"  Come,  Death!"  I  murmured  in  my  cries, - 
For  signals  none  were  waved, — 

When  both  lighthouses  in  her  eyes 
Shone  forth,  and  I  was  saved ! 


A  PROTEST. 

Go,  sophist !  dare  not  to  despoil 

My  life  of  what  it  sorely  needs 
In  days  of  pain,  in  hours  of  toil, — 

The  bread  on  which  my  spirit  feeds. 

You  see  no  light  beyond  the  stars, 
No  hope  of  lasting  joys  to  come  ? 

I  feel,  thank  God,  no  narrow  bars 
Between  me  and  my  final  home  ! 

Hence  with  your  cold  sepulchral  bans, — 
The  vassal  doubts  Unfaith  has  given  ! 

My  childhood's  heart  within  the  man's 

Still  whispers  to  me,  "  Trust  in  Heaven  !  " 


230  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

MORNING  AND  EVENING  BY  THE  SEA. 

At  dawn  the  fleet  stretched  miles  away 

On  ocean  plains  asleep, — 
Trim  vessels  waiting  for  the  day 

To  move  across  the  deep. 
So  still  the  sails  they  seemed  to  be 
White  lilies  growing  in  the  sea. 

When  evening  touched  the  cape's  low  rim, 
And  dark  fell  on  the  waves, 

We  only  saw  processions  dim 
Of  clouds  from  shadowy  caves  ; 

These  were  the  ghosts  of  buried  ships 

Gone  down  in  one  brief  hour's  eclipse  ! 


AGASSIZ. 

Once  in  the  leafy  prime  of  Spring, 
When  blossoms  whitened  every  thorn, 

I  wandered  through  the  Vale  of  Orbe 
Where  Agassiz  was  born. 

The  birds  in  boyhood  he  had  known 
Went  flitting  through  the  air  of  May, 

And  happy  songs  he  loved  to  hear 
Made  all  the  landscape  gay. 

I  saw  the  streamlet  from  the  hills 

Run  laughing  through  the  valleys  green, 

And,  as  I  watched  it  run,  I  said, 
* '  This  his  dear  eyes  have  seen  ! " 

Far  cliffs  of  ice  his  feet  have  climbed 
That  day  outspoke  of  him  to  me  ; 

The  avalanches  seemed  to  sound 
The  name  of  Agassiz ! 

And,  standing  on  the  mountain  crag 
Where  loosened  waters  rush  and  foam, 

I  felt  that,  though  on  Cambridge  side, 
He  made  that  spot  my  home. 

And,  looking  round  me  as  I  mused, 
I  knew  no  pang  of  fear,  or  care, 

Or  homesick  weariness,  because 
Once  Agassiz  stood  there  ! 


SAMUEL  TENNEY  HILDBETH.  231 

I  walked  beneath  no  alien  skies, 

No  foreign  heights  I  came  to  tread, 
For  everywhere  I  looked,  I  saw 

His  grand,  beloved  head. 

His  smile  was  stamped  on  every  tree, 

The  glacier -shone  to  gild  his  name, 
And  every  image  in  the  lake 

Reflected  back  his  fame. 

Great  keeper  of  the  magic  keys 

That  could  unlock  the  guarded  gates 

Where  Science  like  a  Monarch  stands, 
And  sacred  Knowledge  waits, — 

Thine  ashes  rest  on  Auburn's  banks, 

Thy  memory  all  the  world  contains, 
For  thou  couldst  bind  in  human  love 

All  hearts  in  golden  chains  ! 

Thine  was  the  heaven-born  spell  that  sets 
Our  warm  and  deep  affections  free, — 

Who  knew  thee  best  must  love  thee  best, 
And  longest  mourn  for  thee  ! 


Samuel 


This  poet  was  born  in  Exeter,  November  17,  1817.  He  died  in  Cambridge,  Mass., 
February  11,  1839.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  teacher  of  elocution  in  Harvard 
College. 


FAME  AND  LOVE. 

Once  while  in  slumbers  wrapt  I  dreamt  of  Fame, 
And  saw  my  native  cliffs  with  garlands  bound, 
And  heard  the  vales  with  lofty  echoes  sound, 

Calling  with  thousand  tongues  upon  my  name. 

But  when  I  wandered  forth  among  the  crowd, 
To  seize  with  eager  hand  the  laurel  twine, 
To  claim  the  envied,  glorious  prize  as  mine, 

And  drink  with  longing  ear  those  praises  loud, 

Methought  I  felt  strange  loneliness  of  soul, 
An  icy  desolation  at  my  heart, 
A  sense  of  gloominess  that  would  not  part, 

A  tide  of  anguish,  that  with  blackened  roll 

Swept  heavily  along  my  saddened  breast ; 

I  found  myself  accursed  when  thinking  to  be  blest. 


232  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Joy  !  joy  !  those  dreams  were  changed  :  I  slept  again, 
To  see  a  peaceful  cot  with  vines  o'ergrown, 
Around  whose  door  a  thousand  flowers  were  strown, 

While  merry  warblers  tuned  a  careless  strain, 

From  a  young  grove  that  waved  its  branches  near, 
And  woman's  voice,  soft  as  the  breath  of  eve, 
When  summer  winds  their  twilight  dances  weave, 

With  gentlest  murmur  stole  upon  mine  ear ! 

I  blessed  that  holy  spot — those  welcome  notes, 
The  natural  music  of  a  well-known  voice, 
Whose  tones  now  make  my  eager  pulse  rejoice, 

As  from  the  past  a  transient  echo  floats. 

Here  mutual  love  in  peace  and  silence  dwelt 

And  every  morn  and  night  before  the  altar  knelt. 


SSJarren 


Joseph  W.  Parmelee  is  a  native  of  Newport,  and  was  born  Feb.  2,  1818.  His 
ancestors  were  among  the  earliest  English  emigrants  to  this  country.  His  paternal 
grand  parents  were  of  the  first  settlers  of  Newport.  His  parents—  John  and  Phebe 
(Chase)  Parmelee  were  resident  at  a  locality  on  the  South  branch  of  Sugar  river, 
known  as  Soutbville.  He  was  a  scholar  in  old  school  district  No.  1.  under  several 
instructors,  and  in  1833-4  at  the  Newport  Academy,  under  the  tuition  of  the  late 
David  Crosby  of  Nashua.  After  about  a  year  at  Kimball  Union  Academy  his  school 
days  terminated,  and  he  turned  his  attention  to  mercantile  pursuits.  In  1847  he  went 
to  Charleston,  S.  C.,  to  fill  an  engagment  with  a  substantial  concern  into  which  he 
was  afterward  admitted  as  a  co-partner.  He  has  since  that  time,  until  1879,  been 
identified  with  the  Southern  trade,  first  in  Charleston,  and  later  in  N.  Y.  city. 
During  a  varied  business  career  he  has  found  much  time  for  reading  and  self-cul 
ture:  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  press,  and  has  written  occasional 
poems  of  much  interest  and  merit.  Mr.  Parmelee  now  resides  in  his  native  town, 
where  the  family  have  for  many  years  had  a  homestead.  He  is  much  interested 
in  educational  matters  and  is  President  of  the  Board  of  Education  for  Union 
.School  District,  and  Superintending  committee  of  the  town. 


ODE  TO  THE  SOUTH  BRANCH  OF  SUGAR  RIVER. 

Imp  of  the  ages  and  the  wilds  ! 

Adown  the  shadowy  stream  of  time, 
By  castles  such  as  Fancy  builds, 

On  airy  heights  o'er  woods  sublime, 
Dashing  and  free ! 

Thy  springs  are  where  the  sunlight  gleams, 

At  early  morn  above  the  shades, 
And  where  his  gorgeous,  setting  beams 

Long  linger  ere  their  glory  fades 
As  daj*  declines ! 

We  trace  thee  to  the  sylvan  shades, 
Where  mossy  fountains  overflow, 


JOSEPH  WAEEEN  PABMELEE. 


And  sparkle  down  in  bright  cascades 
Through  dark  ravines  to  vales  below 
Serenely  fair  ! 

The  sunny  glade  and  darksome  glen, 
That  mark  thy  rugged,  tortuous  way, 

Were  once  the  haunts  of  savage  men, 
And  birds  of  night,  and  beasts  of  prey, 
In  contest  wild  ! 

The  hand  of  culture  came  at  length, 
And  won  these  valleys  to  the  plow, 

These  waters  in  their  idle  strength 
Were  taught  in  channels  new  to  flow, 
And  turn  the  mill  ! 

We  roamed  thy  meadows  fair  and  wide 
We  frolick'd  on  thy  rocky  brim, 

We  angled  in  thy  edd}'ing  tide, 

In  thy  deep  pools  we  learned  to  swim, 
In  youthful  days  ! 

Would  that  thjr  waters  and  my  lay 
Might  flow  in  symphony,  and  bear 

To  those  in  after  times  that  stray 
Along  thy  rocks  and  margins  fair 
A  sweet  refrain  ! 


STANZAS 

Read  at  the  Birth  Day  Celebration  of  an  aged  Minister  of  the  Gospel. 

In  youthful  prime  he  heard  the  Master's  voice  :  — 
"Go  preach  my  gospel  !"  Forth  with  joy  he  went, 

Not  as  the  Helot  goes  who  has  no  choice, 
But  choosing  to  be  called  and  blest  and  sent 

As  were  the  first  disciples  of  our  Lord, 

Who  bore  th'  evangel  of  his  precious  word. 

In  the  broad,  whitening  harvest  fields  of  earth, 
At  morning,  noontide,  and  the  eleventh  hour, 

Through  vales  of  plenty,  dreary  scenes  of  dearth, 
Sometimes  in  weakness,  sometimes  filled  with  power, 

Well  has  he  wrought,  this  servant,  Lord,  of  thine, 

To  show  thy  wondrous  love  and  power  divine. 

And  now,  like  Israel,  leaning  on  his  staff, 

Yet  bearing  lightly  all  these  ninety  years, 
We  hail  his  presence  here  in  our  behalf, 


234  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

And  celebrate  his  natal  day  with  prayers 
Of  thankfulness,  and  old  time  songs  of  praise, 
Such  as  thy  people  heard  in  other  days. 

Much  more  would' they  rejoice,  long  gone  before, 
Whose  feet  he  guided  out  of  devious  ways, 

And  now  are  waiting  on  that  radiant  shore, 

To  greet  their  pastor  with  a  crown  of  praise  ; — 

May  they  not  mingle  in  this  earthly  scene, 

As  ministering  spirits,  all  unseen  ? 

A  blameless  life — a  service  good  and  true 

In  his  great  Master's  cause — an  honored  age — 

The  full  corn  in  the  ear — in  him  we  view ; 
The  blessings  promised  on  the  inspired  page 

Are  surely  his  in  length  of  days  and  peace, 

Crowned  with  unending  bliss  when  life  shall  cease. 


A  SMOKING  REVERIE. 

I  smoke  my  honest,  red  clay  pipe, 

While  on  its  ample  bowl, 
In  close  relation  to  my  nose, 

There  rests  a  glowing  coal. 

My  nose  reflects  the  glowing  coal, — 
The  glowing  coal  the  nose, — 

And  both  seem  striving  to  attain 
The  splendor  of  the  rose. 

Beneath  the  coal  the  fragrant  weed — 

Responsive  to  the  draft — 
Results  in  gorgeous  clouds  of  smoke 

That  in  the  air  I  waft. 

They  rise  above  my  weary  head 
In  graceful  wreaths  and  curves, 

As  gentle  as  the  influence 
That  settles  on  my  nerves. 

There's  much  philosophy  involved 
In  smoke,  the  doctors  say, — 

Such  is  its  harmony  with  mind 
I'm  in  a  cloud  all  day.    . 

With  this  one  pipe  came  these  few  lines, 

Just  written  as  you  read, 
That  ne'er  had  met  your  genial  eyes 

But  for  this  Indian  weed. 


JAMES  0.  ADAMS  AND  LUCY  P.  ADAMS.  235 

James  ©spoir  Etrams, 

James  O. 'Adams,  a  brother  of  Rev.  E.  E.  Adams,  was  born  in  Concord,  June,  .1, 
1818.  In  early  life  he  learned  the  trade  of  printer.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth  Col 
lege  in  1843.  For  nine  years  he  was  editor  of  the  Manchester  American,  and  was 
afterwards  editor  of  the  Mirror  and  American.  He  also  for  six  years  was  editor  of 
the  Granite  Farmer.  The  poem  here  given  was  published  in  The  Dartmouth,  while 
he  was  at  college. 


THE  DYING  ROSE'S  LAMENT. 

Zephyrs,  as  ye  wander  by, 
Bringing  sweets  from  other  flowers, 
Breathe  for  me  a  gentle  sigh, 
When  I  leave  the  summer  bowers. 

Once  on  your  obedient  wings, 
My  fresh  petals  odors  gave 
To  a  thousand  scentless  things, 
That  will  never  seek  my  grave. 

Dews,  that  tremble  on  my  leaves, 
When  the  morning  ray  appears  ; 
If  for  me  the  garden  grieves, 
Ye  shall  be  its  silvery  tears. 

Wanderer  of  the  gauzy  wing, 
Nectar-sipping,  roaming  free, 
Rest  thee  now,  and  deign  to  sing 
One  sweet  requiem  for  me. 

Waters,  as  }-e  murmur  low, 
Through  the  verdant,  sunnj^  vale  ; 
Fairer  flowers  will  bless  your  flow, 
When  I'm  withered  quite,  and  pale. 

When  another  life  is  near, 

When  the  heaven  and  earth  are  new, 

Paradise  shall  reappear, 

And  I  be  immortal  too. 

Eucg  ^.  £0ram$3. 

Lucy  P.  Foster  was  born  in  1831,  and  in  1851  became  the  wife  of  James  O.  Adams 
of  Manchester.  She  wrote  when  very  young,  and  the  poem  here  printed  was  com 
posed  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years.  She  died  in  1852. 


THE  SUNBEAM. 

A  sunbeam  stole  to  the  dreary  earth, 

With  light  on  its  airy  wing, 
And  it  kissed  the  flowers  in  gleesome  mirth, 

With  the  breath  of  early  spring. 


23f>  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


And  on  it  passed,  through  the  meadows  green, 

Where  the  tin}'  grass-blade  sprang 
From  the  dark  brown  bosom  of  mother  earth, 

And  a  song  of  spring  it  sang. 

It  crept  to  the  heart  of  the  early  flower, 

In  whose  eye  a  tear-drop  la}r, 
Where  it  whispered  words  of  magic  power, 

And  it  wept  no  more  that  day. 

On,  on  o'er  the  hills  to  the  rivulet  wild, 

That  laughingly  flung  its  spray, 
The  sunbeam  flew  ;  and  it  gently  smiled 

As  it  passed  on  its  gladsome  way. 

And  the  foam-beads  looked,  'neath  that  sunny  gaze, 
Like  the  gems  of  the  mountain  mine  ; 

But  the  ray  had  sped  on  its  lightsome  wing 
To  the  forest  of  waving  pine. 

And  a  dirge-like  song  from  the  forest  came, 

Of  voices  wild  and  free, 
And  the  song  they  sung  was  ever  the  same, 

Of  strange,  deep  melody. 

And  the  sunbeam  kissed,  in  childlike  play, 

The  crest  of  the  trees  sublime, 
And  the  castled  rock,  so  hoar  and  gray, 

That  had  seen  the  march  of  time. 

But  a  storm-cloud  came  athwart  the  sky, 

And  the  sunbeam  was  withdrawn, 
Yet  it  perished  not — for  the  good  ne'er  die, 

But  they  wait  for  a  brighter  dawn. 


Uan  iftlatu  Jfrenci). 


Miss  French  was  born  in  Chester,  December  23,  1818,  and  her  death  occurred  in 
her  native  town,  March  9,  1841.  Her  father  was  an  eminent  member  of  the  bar, 
and  his  family  of  eleven  children  enjoyed  good  privileges  for  education  and  im 
provement,  and  several  of  them  have  become  well  known  in  literature  and  other 
attainments.  The  few  poems  she  has  left  promise  much  for  her  had  her  life  been 
prolonged. 


THE  FRIEND  OF  AN  HOUR. 

There  is  truth  in  the  love  that  has  grown  up  with  years, 
Born  in  sorrow  and  sadness,  and  nourished  with  tears ; 
But  give  me  the  friendship  of  mirth's  brilliant  hour, 
And  still  let  me  laugh  with  the  friend  of  an  hour. 


HENEIETTE  VAN  MATU  FEENCH.  237 

Dream  not  that  in  weeping  more  pleasure  you  find, 
O'er  the-  friends  you  have  loved  in  the  years  left  behind  ; 
They  were  dear — they  are  dear,  still  defying  Time's  power  ; 
But  let  me  laugh  on  with  the  friend  of  an  hour. 

The  friends  that  I  loved — they  have  dearer  ones  now, 
Or  the  damp  earth  rests  heavily  on  their  cold  brow  ; 
And  my  days  would  soon  find  me  like  Autumn's  lone  flower, 
Could  I  not  gather  bliss  with  the  friend  of  an  hour. 

There  are  some  who  still  love,  though  their  love  is  forgot, 
There  are  some  who  have  loved  me,  whose  love  now  is  not ; 
I  will  never  regret  them  nor  call  back  their  power, 
But  will  cherish  the  true,  with  the  friend  of  an  hour. 

O  sadly  my  spirit  within  me  is  bowed, 

When  I  think  of  lost  loved  ones,  the  grave  and  the  shroud  ; 

And  darkly  the  shade  on  my  future  would  lower, 

But  I  weep  o'er  the  dead  with  the  friend  of  an  hour. 


THE  WORLD  IS  ALL  BEAUTY. 

The  world  is  all  beauty ;  the  sun's  rising  light, 

But  hides  by  its  brightness  the  stars  of  the  night, 

The  bird's  merry  voices  our  listening  ears  greet 

But  to  call  off  our  thoughts  from  the  flowers  at  our  feet. 

The  world  is  all  beauty  ;  the  dim  forest  shade, 
The  sparkling  brook  gurgling  through  deep  wooded  glade, 
Ragged  rock,  and  wild  bramble,  each  leaf,  flower  and  tree, 
E'en  "the  field  of  the  sluggard"  has  beauty  for  me. 

There's  a  loftier  beauty  ;  the  mind,  as  it  springs 
From  the  visible  glories  of  earth,  spreads  its  wings 
Over  limitless  regions  of  truth,  bold  and  free — 
O'er  a  wide  world  of  beauty  the  eye  cannot  see. 

The  heart  knows  a  beauty  the  mind  cannot  know, 
When  it  throws  o'er  the  true,  pure  and  loving  its  glow ; 
It  giveth  to  knowledge  its  value  and  power — 
To  the  forest  a  spirit — a  soul  to  the  flower. 


SHORT  THE  TIME. 

Short  the  time  since  first  we  met 

Strangers  in  each  thought  and  feeling, 

Now  we  sever,  will  regret 

Ever  o'er  our  hearts  come  stealing  ? 


238  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Time,  they  say,  alone  brings  love ; 

Few  the  hours  we've  passed  together ; 
But  for  us  some  friendly  dove 

Stole  from  friendship's  wing  a  feather. 

Few  the  hopes  that  we  have  shared, 
Few  the  fears,  the  joys,  the  sorrows ; 

One  sad  tie  our  friendship's  spared — 
From  the  past  it  nothing  borrows. 

Love  the  lovely — thus  do  I — 
From  respect  esteem  it  floweth  ; 

You  will  never  pass  it  by 

That  it  no  more  warmly  gloweth. 


TWO  MAIDENS. 

FIRST    MAIDEN. 

The  clouds,  the  clouds,  how  beautiful  the  clouds  at  set  of  sun, 
As  all  the  splendors  of  all  hours  were  gathered  into  one  ! 

SECOND     MAIDEN. 

And  as  that  hour,  in  mockery,  more  splendid  than  they  all, 
Had. hung  uround  the  dying  day  a  gorgeous  funeral  pall. 

FIRST   MAIDEN. 

I  say  not  so — those  clouds  are  but  a  smile  the  Day-God  flings 
To  tell  us  that  the  circling  hours  bring  morn  upon  their  wings. 
And  when  he  sinks  beneath  the  wave,  he  leaves  the  stars  to  say 
That  he  but  bears  to  other  lands  the  blessings  of  the  day. 
Those  stars  that  lend,  like  him,  to  all  their  unreflected  light, 
And  planets  shining  steadily  in  borrowed  beauty  bright. 

SECOND  MAIDEN. 

But  O,  the  blushing  Spring  has  fled,  too  beautiful  to  last ! 
Then,  love,  let  us  be  sorrowful  o'er  glories  that  are  past. 

FIRST    MAIDEN. 

Why  mourn  3*0  for  the  bright  springtime  ?   She  fled  in  light  away  ; 
Her  flowery  footprints  greet  us  still  along  our  pathway  gay. 
The  Autumn  sun  shines  glorious  afar  o'er  vale  and  hill  ; 
And  Autumn's  forests  lie  in  light  magnificently  still. 

SECOND  MAIDEN. 

Tis  true  we  trace  the  steps  of  Spring  'neath  Summer's  leafy  noon, 
Mid  waving  corn,  and  purple  grapes,  and  'iieath  the  harvest  moon  ; 


JOHN  EILET  VAENET.  239 

We  love  the  Autumn's  forest  leaf,  and  Autumn's  low  breeze  sigh 
ing. 
But  sadly,  as  a  friend's  last  word,  or  the  smile  he  wore  in  dying. 

FIRST    MAIDEN. 

Oh  think  not,  my  beloved  one,  that  thou  alone  canst  hear 

The  voice  that  dwells  in  leaf  and  breeze  proclaim  that  winter's 

near. 

But  winter  is  not  joyless  when  the  heart  is  tuned  to  mirth, 
Though  ice  chains  lock  the  mountain  streams,  and  snow  en 
tombs  the  earth. 

SECOND  MAIDEN.1 

Will  nothing  make  thee  mournful  ?     Thy  youth  is  waning  fast ; 

The  freshness  of  thy  childhood  is  forever,  ever  past. 

Thy  womanhood  now  cometh  on  with  sorrow  and  with  care, 

And  soon  old  age  will  dim  thine  eye,  and  blanch  thine  auburn  hair  ; 

The  dark  grave  flingeth  open  wide  its  portals  unto  thee  ; 

I  know  that  thou  art  weeping  now,  beloved  one,  with  me. 

FIRST    MAIDEN. 

The  future  that  thou  dreadest,  love,  is  kindly  hid  from  me  ; 
Darkness  is  there,  but  through  the  shade  the  light  of  joy  I  see  ; 
And  o'er  the  tomb,  though  hidden  from  thy  sorrow-clouded  sight, 
There  beams  a  star,  the  star  of  hope,  illuming  all  its  night. 


i&tleg 


John  R.  Varney,  a  native  of  this  State,  was  born  in  1819.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1843 ;  taught  in  Franklin  Academy  two  years ;  was  clerk  of  the  Court 
of  Stratford  County  four  years ;  professor  of  mathematics  in  Dartmouth  College 
1860-'t>3 ;  admitted  to  the  bar  in  18(53  and  became  a  partner  of  John  P.  Hale.  In  18(58 
he  became  one  of  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  the  Dover  Inquirer,  weekly,  and  of 
the  Daily  Republican.  He  died  by  accident  May  2,  1882.  He  was  inspecting  the 
ruins  of  a  burnt  church  building  in  Dover,  when,  by  the  falling  of  a  chimney,  and 
the  gable-end  of  the  building,  he  was  buried,  and  when  taken  up  was  found  to 
be  dead. 


TO  THE  FIRE-FLY. 

Like  to  the  gleaming  thought,  Bright  as  the  blissful  dreams, 

That  flits  through  fancy's  eye  ;     Which  gild  our  youthful  days  ; 

Like  to  the  star  that  shot  Or  fleecy  cloud,  that  gleams 
Across  the  eastern  sky  ;  With  Sol's  last  setting  rays  ; 

Or  dazzling  show,  Thy  sparkling  light, 

That  flits  away  When  darkness  shades 

In  one  brief  day,  The  everglades, 

Thy  transient  glow  ;  Illumes  the  night. 


240  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  would  thy  fires  might  be  As  bright  a  light  as  thine, 

Less  fitful  in  their  blaze,  And  far  more  constant  too, 

That  I  might  longer  see  That  far  away  may  shine 

The  golden  wreath,  that  plays     And  speaks  me  good  and  true  ; 

Thy  path  around  ;  Whose  beaming  ray 

As  o'er  the  lees  Shall  gladness  make, 

And  dusky  trees,  And  joy  awake, 

Thy  way  is  found.  Be  mine,  I  pray. 

But  yet  thy  glittering  spark  And  when  this  light  hath  shed 

Seems  joyful  to  my  eyes,  Its  rays  for  many  years, 

As  when  in  sorrow  dark,  And  caused  the  heart  that  bled 

Some  gleams  of  hope  arise  ;  To  smile  amid  its  tears, 

Which  quick  dispel  Then,  Earth,  adieu  ! 

The  hated  gloom,  Be  mine  to  rise, 

And  in  its  room  Above  the  skies, 

Cause  joy  to  dwell.  And  shine  anew. 


WHAT  IS  BEAUTY. 

What  beauty  is,  O,  who  can  say? 
Who  paint  the  charms  that  softly  play 

Around  her  brow  ?  her  ray 
Who  catch,  as  through  the  mind  it  gleams 
Its  fairy  light,  and  often  seems 

To  gild  our  airy  dreams? 

The  rainbow's  hues  that  sudden  wake, 
Midst  weeping  clouds,  and,  bending,  slake 

Within  the  silvery  lake 
Their  seeming  thirst ;  the  Aurora's  rays, 
Upon  whose  quick  and  fitful  blaze 

We  oft  with  wonder  gaze. 

The  transient  glories  of  the  trees, 
As  when  the  frosts  of  autumn  seize 

And  tint  with  gold  their  leaves  : 
The  graceful,  sweet  and  modest  flower, 
That,  hidden  'neath  some  lonely  bower, 

In  meekness  blooms  its  hour ; 

The  tender  love  and  winning  grace, 
That  in  a  mother's  look  we  trace, 

Or  in  a  sister's  face  ; 
And  in  the  kindred  tie  that  finds 
Congenial  hearts  and  noble  minds 
And  them  in  friendship  binds  ; 


CHAELES  ANDERSON  DANA.          241 

Or  when  a  heart  of  budding  years 
Some  mournful  tale  of  sorrow  hears, 

And  gently  drops  its  tears  ; 
And  when  its  joj'ous  laugh  is  heard, 
As  sweet  as  music  of  a  bird, 

Or  kindly  spoken  word. 

But  when  in  opening  bloom  we  find, 
'Neath  brow  that's  fair,  a  gentle  mind, 

A  look  that's  ever  kind, 
A  sweet  and  graceful  modesty, 
Combined  with  truth  and  purity, 

Then  Beauty's  self  we  see. 


Carles  &ntrerson  Batta. 

Charles  A.  Dana  was  born  in  Hinsdale,  August  8, 1819.  He  passed  two  years  at 
Harvard  College,  but  left  before  graduating,  on  account  of  an  affection  of  the  eyes. 
Becoming  a  journalist  he  went  to  New  York  and  was  connected  with  the  Tribune. 
In  1863-'64-65,  he  was  Assistant  Secretary  of  War.  After  leaving  that  post,  he  bought, 
with  the  aid  of  some  associates,  a  daily_  journal  of  New  York  city  and  made  it  a 
great  financial  success.  He  was  associated  with  George  Ripley  in  editing  the 
American  Cyclopaedia ;  and  in  1854,  he  edited  "The  Household  Book  of  Poetry." 
His  poetry  was  mostly  written  before  his  twenty-fifth  year.  He  is  a  linguist,  and 
can  converse  with  his  foreign  guests  in  their  own  languages. 


VIA  SACEA. 

Slowly  along  the  crowded  street  I  go, 

Marking  with  reverent  look  each  passer's  face, 

Seeking,  and  not  in  vain,  in  each  to  trace 

That  primal  soul  whereof  he  is  the  show. 

For  here  still  move,  by  many  eyes  unseen, 

The  blessed  gods  that  erst  Olympus  kept ; 

Through  every  guise  these  lofty  forms  serene 

Declare  the  all-holding  Life  hath  never  slept ; 

But  known  each  thrill  that  in  man's  heart  hath  been, 

And  every  tear  that  his  sad  eyes  have  wept : 

Alas  for  us  !  the  heavenly  visitants, — 

We  greet  them  still  as  most  unwelcome  guests, 

Answering  their  smile  with  hateful  looks  askance, 

Their  sacred  speech  with  foolish,  bitter  jests ; 

But  oh  !  what  is  it  to  imperial  Jove 

That  this  poor  world  refuses  all  his  love  ! 


MANHOOD. 

Dear,  noble  soul,  wisely  thy  lot  thou  bearest ; 
For,  like  a  god  toiling  in  earthly  slavery, 
Fronting  thy  sad  fate  with  a  joyous  bravery, 


•242  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Each  darker  day  a  sunnier  mien  thou  wearest. 

No  grief  can  touch  thy  sweet  and  spiritual  smile, 

No  pain  is  keen  enough  that  it  has  power 

Over  thy  childlike  love,  that  all  the  while 

Upon  the  cold  earth  builds  its  heavenly  bower  ;— 

And  thus  with  thee  bright  angels  make  their  dwelling. 

Bringing  thee  stores  of  strength  when  no  man  knoweth  ; 

The  ocean-stream,  from  God's  heart  ever  swelling, 

That  forth  through  each  least  thing  in  Nature  goeth, 

In  thee,  oh,  truest  hero,  deeper  floweth  ; — 

With  joy  I  bathe,  and  man}-  souls  beside 

Feel  a  new  life  in  the  celestial  tide. 


TO  R.  B. 

Beloved  friend  !  they.sa}-  that  thou  art  dead, 

Nor  shall  our  asking  eyes  behold  thee  more, 

Save  in  the  company  of  the  fair  and  dread, 

Along  that  radiant  and  immortal  shore, 

Whither  thy  face  was  turned  forever  more. 

Thou  wert  a  pilgrim  toward  the  True  and  Real, 

Never  forgetful  of  that  infinite  goal ; 

Salient,  electrical,  thy  weariless  soul, 

To  every  faintest  vision  always  leal, 

Even  mid  these  phantoms  made  its  world  ideal. 

And  so  thou  hast  a  most  perennial  fame, 

Though  from  the  earth  thy  name  should  perish  quite 

When  the  dear  sun  sinks,  golden,  whence  he  came, 

The  gloom,  else  cheerless,  hath  not  lost  his  light ; 

So  in  our  lives  impulses  born  of  thine, 

Like  fireside  stars  across  the  night  shall  shine. 


lErasmus  Sargeant. 

Edward  E.  Sargeaiit  was  born  in  Hillsborough,  June  17, 1820.  At  an  early  age 
he  was  a  clerk  in  a  store  in  Lowell,  Mass.,  where  he  remained  till  his  17th  year, 
when  he  became  a  student  in  Newbury  Seminary,  Vt.,  where  he  fitted  for  college 
and  entered  at  Dartmouth,  graduating" from  thence  in  is-4:i.  His  whole  college  life 
was  eminently  manly,  and  assiduously  devoted  to  its  high  purpose.  After  leaving 
college  he  went  to  Georgia  and  had  charge  of  a  Female  Seminary  in  Putnam  Co. 
While  there  he  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Macon,  Ga.  He  return 
ed  to  New  Hampshire  in  1845,  and  the  next  year  he  went  to  Grand  Rapids,  .Michi 
gan.  His  business  and  fame  as  a  lawyer  rapidlv  increased.  In  1S.V5  lie  went  to 
Europe  and  visited  remarkable  plaoealn  England,  France,  and  throughout  Europe 
and  Asia-Minor.  He  returned  alter  nearly  a  year'-  alxenre  to  his  home  in  Grand 
Rapids.  He  died  April  l."»,  lsr»s,  nir  a  cancerous  tumor  in  his  throat.  With  the  calm 
ness  of  a  philosopher  and  the  patient  resignation  of  a  Christian  he  met  his  tinal  dis 


solution. 


EDWARD  ERASMUS  SAEGEANT.  243 

THE  INDIAN  MOTHER  AND  HER  SON.* 

THE  MOTHER'S  APPEAL. 

Stay !  Wilt  thou  leave  me  now, — thy  mother  !  her 

Whose  wigwam  notes  once  lulled  thine  infancy  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  how  this  breaking  heart 

Yearned  with  excess  of  love,  when  first  thy  hand, 

Bending  thy  father's  bow,  gave  lightning  speed 

To  the  winged  arrow,  certain,  bearing  death, 

O'ertaking  the  dark  bison,  drinking  up 

The  strength  of  his  firm  limbs,  turning  the  tide 

Of  his  hot-beating  blood?  O,  then,  with  joy, 

Did  hope  reach  forth  to  distant  moons,  when  thou 

Would'st  be  the  champion  of  our  dauntless  tribe, 

The  leader  of  our  wars  ;  a  chieftain  sent 

By  the  Great  Spirit  down  to  make  these  woods, 

And  streams,  and  crags,  and  lakes,  proud  scenes  of  deeds 

No  arm  in  moons  gone  by  has  e'er  achieved  ! 

Th}'  father's  image,  as,  from  earth  upsprung, 

He  were  a  youth  again,  with  eye  of  fire, 

And  dark  hair  streaming  on  the  breath  of  morn, 

And  lip  all  trembling  with  a  high  resolve, — 

How  have  I  gazed  on  thee,  and  wept  and  smiled ! 

Thou  dost  not  know  a  mother's  tender  pride  ! 

'Tis  nature's  gift,  'tis  born  within  the  sweep 

Of  the  dread  whirlwind,  by  the  wigwam's  blaze, 

In  the  deep  shade  of  tempest-driven  woods, 

Where  winter  frowns  on  every  living  thing, 

And  summer  struggles  to  put  on  a  smile  ; —  . 

Yes  here  'tis  strong  and  noble,  as  ever  filled 

A  courtby  heart  beyond  the  floods.     The  love 

That  pours  these  accents,  sending  tears  adown 

These  old  and  withered  cheeks,  immortal  is ! 

But  when  this  bosom,  whence  tlry  infant  lips 

First  drew  the  drop  that  told  thee  I  was  thine, 

Which  now  I  bare  to  win  thee  back  again, 

When  it  shall  meet,  in  the  fair  home  beyond 

The  hills,  where  the  Great  Spirit,  cloud-enveloped,  sits, 

*  A.  young  Indian,  whose  father  was  dead,  lived  with  his  mother  on  the  shores 
of  the  Pacific,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  river.  He  had  often  been  urged  to 
visit  Edinburgh,  and  was  delighted  with  the  idea  of  going,  but  the  tears  of  his 
dear  parent  had  prevented  the  accomplishment  of  his  desire.  At  length  a  vessel 
again  arrived  from  Scotland;  the  master  repeated  the  request,  and  offered  induce 
ments,  which  the  Indian  could  not  resist.  He  determined  to  leave  hi#  native 
woods,  and  cross  the  wide  ocean.  The  time  of  his  departure  came,  the  mother  ap 
peared  and  bared  her  bosom  to  win  back  her  son.  He  wept  and  hesitated,  but 
soon  turned  away  and  stepped  on  board.  He  went  to  Edinburgh,  received  an 
excellent  education,  and  in  a  few  years  returned  to  his  forest  home. 


244  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

On  that  green,  sunny  isle,  thy  father's  form, 

What  shall  be  told  of  thee?  O  come,  come  back. 

Leave  not  thy  mother  in  her  tottering  age, 

In  this  cold  wilderness  alone  to  die, 

Thy  voice  would  soothe  the  pains  of  cruel  death, 

And  charm  the  spirit  on  its  way  to  heaven. 

O,  shall  the  stranger  from  the  mother  steal 

The  boon  which  Nature  gave, — her  offspring's  love  ! 

Then  break,  rny  heart-strings, — let  mine  eye  be  dim, 

And  fly,  my  soul,  since  all  it  loves  is  fled. 

ANSWER  OF  THE  SON. 

My  soul  is  relenting,  how  can  I  depart, 

When  the  voice  of  the  mother  that  bore  me, 

Strikes  home  like  a  spirit  and  conquers  my  heart, — 
For  it  brings  the  departed  before  me. 

O,  shade  from  the  ever-green  isles  of  the  west, 

On  a  pinion  of  light  thou  art  hieing, 
Impelled  by  the  power  of  a  father's  unrest, 

That  his  son  from  his  kindred  is  flying. 

Yes,  white  man,  that  spirit  commands  me  away, 

In  the  shadowy  forest  paths  roaming, 
And  along  by  the  cliffs  in  the  mist  doth  it  stray, 

Where  leaps  the  live  cataract,  foaming. 

Farewell !  To  }"our  countrjr  and  kindred  return, 
Where  the  dust  of  your  fathers  is  sleeping  ; 

For  tears  like  a  fire  on  my  sad  spirit  burn, 
The  tears  that  a  mother  is  weeping. 

But  where  is  my  courage  :  It  never  yet  failed, 
When  the  eye-ball  of  fire  was  before  me ; 

This  heart  at  the  tomahawk's  edge  never  quailed, 
Nor  when  arrows  of  death  whistled  o'er  me. 

I  will  go,  though  with  pain,  from  the  storm-beaten  bowers, 
By  snow-wreaths  in  winter  moons  crested, 

And  where  from  the  fervor  of  summer's  brief  hours 
Beneath  the  cool  shadows  I  rested. 

Then  back  to  thy  paradise,  shade  of  the  dead  ! 

In  vain  to  this  heart  hast  thou  spoken ; 
It  is  not  that  the  love  of  thy  kindred  has  fled, 

But  their  spell  o'er  my  spirit  is  broken. 


ALBEE  T  PERR  Y.  245 


Rev.  Albert  Perry  was  born  in  Rindge,  December  17, 1820.  In  youth  he  was  much 
inclined  to  literary  pursuits,  and  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1846. 
When  about  thirty  "years  of  age  he  became  much  interested  in  the  truths  of  religion. 
He  studied  theology  at  Andover,  Mass.,  and  was  settled  over  the  First  Congrega 
tional  church  in  Stoughton,  Mass.  The  few  years  of  this,  his  only  pastorate,  were 
Jilled  with  happy,  successful  service,  cheered  by  the  most  affectionate  relations  be 
tween  pastor  and  people.  He  retired  from  the  ministry  in  1856,  fatally  stricken  with 
pulmonary  consumption,  and  died  at  New  Ipswich,  June  17, 1862. 

THE  GRAND  MONADNOCK. 

Summer  was  out  in  all  her  greenery, 
And  fragrant  zephyrs  o'er  the  landscape  played, 
As  through  New  Hampshire's  rugged  scenery 
I  rambled  ;  trees  were  towering  undecayed, 
That  cast  on  other  centuries  their  shade  ; 
Tall  mountains  stood  around  with  solemn  mien, 
The  guardians  of  many  a  flowery  glade, 
That  slept  in  beauty  and  in  jo}7  between, 
Like  maiden  innocence,  too  bashful  to  be  seen. 

There  is  a  magic  in  those  old  gray  rocks, 
Towering  in  mountain  majestj-  on  high  ; 
For  ages  they  have  battled  with  the  shocks, 
Of  racking  whirlwinds  that  have  wandered  by ; 
Changes  that  have  deranged  mortality, 
Are  nought  to  them  ;  a  brotherhood  sublime, 
They  hold  a  quiet  converse  with  the  sky, 
And  stand,  as  when  our  world  was  in  its  prime, 
Unharmed  as  j'et,  by  all  the  ravages  of  time. 

And  thou  Parnassus  of  my  native  clime, 
What  though  we  scarcely  yet  have  seen  thy  name, 
Among  the  annals  of  hesperian  rhyme  ? 
What  if  no  oracle  enhance  thy  fame, 
No  fuming  deity  or  prescient  dame 
Erect  a  domicile  and  tripod  near? 
Thou  Grand  Monadnock,  grandeur  is  the  same, 
Whether  it  shade  the  Delphian  hemisphere, 
Or  tower  without  a  sybil,  or  a  poet  here. 

I  stood  upon  tlry  solitary  height, 
When  erst  romantic  boyhood  climbed  the  steep, 
And  there  outvigiled  all  the  stars  of  night, 
Till  morning  gleamed  along  the  watery  deep, 
And  woke  a  drows}r  continent  from  sleep. 
I  saw  remotest  Orient  unfold 
His  portals,  and  a  world  of  splendor  leap 
From  the  abyss  where  far  Atlantic  rolled, 
Mingling  its  billows  with  a  firmament  of  gold. 


•2  It!  POETS  OF  NEW  BAlfPSSTRE. 

Time  rolls  along  with  an  oblivious  tide, 
And  soon  will  drown  the  voice  of  praise  or  blame  ; 
The  tallest  monuments  of  human  pride 
Crumble  away  like  ant-hills — both  the  same ; 
How  brief  the  echo  of  a  sounding  name, — 
The  env}'  and  the  glory  of  mankind  ! 
And  who  shall  heed  the  after-trump  of  fame, 
That  fluctuates  a  season  on  the  wind, 
Stirring  the  empty  dust  that  he  has  left  behind  ? 

Farewell,  thou  rude  but  venerable  form  ! 
I  go  m}-  way,  perchance  return  no  more  ; 
I  leave  thee  here  to  battle  with  the  storm, 
And  the  inconstant  winds  that  round  thee  roar ; 
1  would  not  like  thy  cloudy  summit  soar ; 
Too  many  blasts  would  howl  around  my  head. 
Farewell ;  contentment  is  my  only  store  ; 
Along  the  humbler  valley  let  me  tread, 
Unenvied  live,  and  sleep  with  the  forgotten  dead. 


ILamarir 

Rev.  Leonard  Swain  was  born  in  1821.  Ho  was  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College 
in  1841,  and  at  Andover  Theological  Seminary  in  184(5.  He  became  pastor  of  a  Con 
gregational  church  in  Nashua  in  1847,  and  was  dismissed  in  18oi'  to  become  i>a>lor 
of  a  church  in  Providence,  K.  I.  He  died  in  1869. 


MAN  IS  NOT  WHAT  HE  WILLS. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  the  very  sky 

Hath  not  a  powerless  cloud,  but  looketb.  down 

In  meek  compassion,  as  it  floateth  by, 
On  us,  born  subjects  of  a  smile  or  frown. 

There's  not  an  upstart,  vagrant  wind  but  drives 
His  passive  spirit  on  its  lightest  breath  ; 

The  unsinewed  giant  so  no  longer  strives, 
Though  o'er  his  maddened  eye  careers  the  shakened  death. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  and  O,  'tis  joy 

That  not  a  spell-clad  spirit  is  his  foe  ; 
No  bloodless  wizard,  patient  to  destro}', 

Binds  on  the  fatal  ring,  the  charm  of  woe  ! 
For  age,  the  magic  circle  when  it  breaks, 

Goes  up  with  fleeing  symphonies  on  high ; 
Aod  a  wild  thrill  of  ecstasy  awakes, 
Above  the  grief  that  mourns  his  lost  captivity. 


LEONARD  SWAIN.  247 


Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  for  far  above, 

And  from  beneath,  the  thwarting  currents  roll, 

And  nature's  mighty  magazine  of  love 

Ten  thousand  times  shall  overcome  his  soul. 

And  wheresoe'er  his  chosen  path  shall  tend, 
His  charmed  footsteps  keep  but  half  the  way ; 

A  cloud,  a  sound,  a  very  flower,  shall  send 
An  overflowing  flood,  and  bear  him  wide  astray. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  hast  thou  not  seen 
The  stern,  strong  face  unbrace  itself  again, 

When  a  soft  breath  went  by,  with  thoughts  between 
That  never  touched  his  iron  soul  till  then  ? 

The  harsh,  determined  visage,  how  it  tells 
A  sudden  tale  of  years  long  past  and  gone ! 

The  worldly,  rugged  bosom,  how  it  swells 
With  quick  o'ercoming  tides,  from  Youth's  far  ocean  drawn  ! 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  the  simple  child 
That,  panting,  hunts  the  dreamy  butterfly, 

Doth  pause  at  sudden,  of  his  prey  beguiled, 
A  smitten  victim  of  the  western  sky, 

When  o'er  the  burning  hills  it  takes  the  sun 
To  that  bright  place  of  happiness  and  gold  ; 

And,  as  he  turns'  away,  the  lesson  done, 
He  goes,  another  child,  by  other  thoughts  controlled. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  the  time  hath  been 

When  he  whose  hand  doth  whet  the  midnight  steel 

Hath  bowed  his  head,  all  gray  with  age  and  sin, 
To  hear  the  hamlet  bell's  sweet,  distant  peal. 

He  had  not  cared  to  hear,  but  in  his  breast 

Were  things  of  kindred  with  that  human  sound  ; 

The  answering  memories  break  their  long,  long  rest, 
And  thought  and  tears  are  born,  and  penitence  profound. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  uncounted  powers 

Beset  each  single  footstep  of  his  way, 
And,  like  the  guardian  spirits  of  the  flowers, 

Charm  each  malignant,  poisonous  breath  away ; 
And'  so  by  guileless  things  is  man  beguiled, 

And  sweetly  chastened  in  his  earthly  will, 
While  every  thwarting  leaves  him  more  a  child, 
With  childlike  sense  of  good,  and  childlike  dread  of  ill. 

Man  is  not  what  he  wills  ;  a  deep  amen 
O'ercomes  the  grateful  spirit  as  it  hears  ; 


248  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

"  Th}"  will,  not  mine,  be  done,"  it  breathes  again 

To  him  that  sits  above  the  circling  years. 
The  weak  doth  find  supporters,  and  the  blind 

A  faith  that  will  not  ask  an  earthly  eye, 
To  see  the  goings  of  the  eternal  mind, 
When  clouds  and  darkness  bear  his  moving  throne  on  high. 


Mrs.  Foss  was  born  in  New  Boston,  October,  24,  1821.  Her  father,  Asa  Bryant, 
belonged  to  the  Bryant  family  of  Bridgewater,  Mass.,  of  which  the  late  William 
Cullen  Bryant  was  another  branch,  they  being  cousins.  She  was  educated  at  Dra- 
cutt  Seminary,  Dracutt,  Mass.,  and  completed  a  classical  and  English  course  of  study. 
In  1848  she  married  George  Foss,  of  Thornton.  In  1859  Mr.  Foss  became  proprietor 
of  the  well  known  Brook  Farm  and  Summer  Boarding  House,  near  Campton  village. 


TO  A  SPINNING  WHEEL. 

In  ecstacy  let  others  praise, 

The  organ's  lofty  peal ; 
To  me  there  is  no  music  like, 

The  dear  old  spinning  wheel. 

Its  gentle  buzzing  greets  my  ear, 
With  a  soft,  soothing  sound  ; 

Like  the  faint  echoes  of  the  woods, 
Where  water- falls  resound. 

How  many  memories  of  the  past, 

Clustering  around  it  cling ! 
And  make  it  to  my  throbbing  heart, 

A  dear,  time-honored  thing. 

Our  mother  ere  the  household  band, 
Had  left  the  household  hearth, 

Mingled  the  music  of  the  wheel, 
With  man}T  an  evening's  mirth. 

And  later,  in  her  "green  old  age," 
She  runp"  out  many  a  chime  ; 

Rising  and  tailing  with  each  step, 
Her  cap-border  kept  time. 

She  taught  us  that  our  lives  should  be, 
A  well  drawn,  even  thread  : 

Peace  to  her  ashes  !  for  she  sleeps, 
Now  with  the  silent  dead  ! 

But  soon  the  spinning  wheel  will  pass  ; 

Its  music  soon  be  o'er ; 
Oh  !  who'll  appreciate  its  worth, 

One  generation  more  ? 


DEBORAH  G.  FOSS.  249 

ALL  HALLOW  EVE. 

My  natal  month,  O,  glowing,  bright  October ! 

When  forests  all,  in  gorgeous  hues  arra%yed, 
Contrast  with  pastures,  russet  brown  and  sober, 

Where  patient  kine,  lie  drowsy  in  the  shade. 

The  flocks  come  down  to  feed  upon  the  meadow ; 

The  woods  are  jocund  with  harmonious  sounds : 
Squirrels  dart  in  and  out  among  the  shadows, 

To  catch  the  falling  nuts,  with  agile  bounds. 

Oh  !  regal  month,  of  beauty  and  of  glory ! 

Thy  days  are  ended,  in  All  Hallow  Night : 
And  on  this  eve,  as  I  have  read  in  story, 

Friends,  long  since  passed  to  the  abodes  of  light, 

Return  again,  to  the  familiar  dwelling, 
That  echoed  to  their  footsteps  here  below, 

And,  with  affection  earthly  love  excelling, 
Commune  of  things  beyond  our  ken  to  know, 

Oh  !  sainted  mother  !  art  thou  here  this  even  ? 

And  is  thy  presence  in  this  quiet  room  ? 
Art  thou  to  me  a  heavenly  min'strant  given, 

To  cheer  and  comfort  for  the  days  to  come  ? 

Then  strengthen  me  in  every  just  endeavor, 
For  my  own  good,  or  good  of  human  kind  ; 

Let  light  upon  my  pathwa}7,  shine  forever, 
Until  at  length,  the  heavenly  goal  I  find, 

A  brother's  love  so  pure,  so  strong,  so  holy  ! 

He  whom  I  loved,  as  sisters  seldom  do ! 
Can  aught  so  high  descend  to  aught  so  lowly? 

Sure  love  is  deathless  when  the  heart  is  true. 

Of  all  dear  things  to  me  this  seems  the  dearest — 
A  little  child  just  prattling  on  my  knee  : 

We  had  two  such ;  yet  God  who  sees  the  clearest, 
Took  them  from  us,  with  Him,  for  aye,  to  be. 

These  may  be  here  to-night,  I  am  not  certain, 
But  this  I  know,  that  in  these  evening  hours, 

They  have  seemed  near,  and  very  thin  the  curtain 
That  parts  their  lives  from  this  low  life  of  ours. 

And  if,  sometimes,  I  am  inclined  to  murmur, 
That  clouds  return  after  the  morning  rain, 

Let  these  sweet  thoughts  still  in  my  memory  linger, 
A  radiant  halo,  on  the  cross  of  pain. 


250  POETS  OF  NEW 


Simeon 

Rev.  8.  P  Heath  was  horn  in  Monroe,  Dec,  10,  1821.  He  was  educated  at  Xc\v- 
hury  Seminary,  Vt.,  and  studied  theology  at  the  Biblical  Institute  in  Concord.  II.- 
began  to  preach  in  1850.  Since  then  the  ministry  has  been  his  life-work. 

EXTRACT 

From  a  poem  read  at  the  inauguration  of  the  New  Hampshire  Orphans'  Home 
and  School  of  Industry,  at  the  Webster  Elm  Farm,  Franklin,  October  19,  1871. 

In  coming  days,  when  Charity 

Shall  wreathe  the  brow  of  Liberty, 

And  gild  the  page  of  history  ; 

The  peaceful  triumph  wrought  to-day, 

Will  shine  in  honor's  bright  array  : 

For  He  whose  smile  is  true  renown, 

Whose  name  is  Love,  our  work  will  crown. 

And  shall  we  cherish  one  dark  fear, 

That  our  dear  Home  established  here, 

Will  fail,  mid  beauties  rich  and  grand, 

So  freely  strown  by  God's  own  hand? 

As  soon  believe  our  granite  hills, 

Our  fertile  vales  and  sparkling  rills 

Will  traitors  turn,  and  no  supplies 

Reward  the  toiler's  sacrifice. 

When  freemen  met  on  Bunker's  Hill, 

A  grateful  service  to  fulfil, 

They  chose,  to  be  their  speaker,  one 

Whose  earl}T  home  we  stand  upon. 

A  dense  crowd  pressed  upon  the  stand  ; 

In  vain  the  marshals  gave  command, 

"Move  farther  back  !"     The  eager  throng 

Behind  swept  forward  ones  along. 

Reluctantly  the  marshals  yield, 

And  let  the  crowd  possess  the  field. 

"It  can't  be  helped  ;"  they  tamely  say  ; 

"The  throng  will  mar  our  plans  to-day." 

Then  Webster's  voice,  so  deep  and  loud, 

Rang  out  o'er  that  vast,  surging  crowd  ; 

"Move  back  !  nothing's  impossible 

To  those  who  stand  on  Bunker  Hill." 

That  mighty  voice  they  all  obey  ; 

That  teeming  mass  of  life  gives  way. 

To  day  we  hear  a  mightier  voice, 

Which  bids  our  trusting  hearts  rejoice  : 

"Nothing's  impossible  to  you, 

Whose  faith  is  strong,  whose  hearts  are  true  ; 

Go  forward  in  3-our  work  of  love, 


SIMEON  P.  HEATH.  2ol 


You'll  find  your  sure  reward  above." 

Tradition  tells  that  long  and  well, 

A  sculptor  wrought  within  his  cell, 

A  crypt,  deep  hidden  under  ground, 

Be}"ond  the  reach  of  human  sound. 

A  shadow}'  torch-light  filled  the  room, 

Yet  on  he  toiled  amid  the  gloom, 

Year  after  year.     At  last  be  saw 

The  well-carved  stone,  without  a  flaw, 

Made  ready  for  its  destined  place, 

Some  portion  of  a  wall  to  grace. 

He  brushed  the  chips  from  out  his  hair, 

While  other  hands  bestowed  their  care, 

And  took  the  cherished  work  of  years 

Awa}r  from  sight,  as  falling  tears 

Evinced  alike  his  hopes  and  fears ; 

And  left  the  cell  to  find  again 

His  place  among  the  ranks  of  men. 

Soon  dawned  for  him  th'  auspicious  day 

That  all  his  labors  should  repay. 

The  Temple  with  refulgent  light, 

Rose  proudly  on  his  dazzled  sight : 

And  happy  throngs  of  Israel's  race 

Were  gath'ring  to  the  sacred  place, 

To  dedicate  that  structure  rare, 

To  Him  who  hears  the  orphan's  praj-er. 

The  artist  enters  :  soon  his  gaze 

Is  riveted.     In  deep  amaze, 

He  views  the  stone  his  skilful  hand 

And  fertile  brain  so  deftly  planned, 

Placed  in  an  archway  where  it  shone 

In  grace  and  beauty  all  its  own. 

His  soul  drinks  in  the  rapt'rous  sight ; 

His  work  is  crowned  with  glory's  light. 

Thus  oft  the  toilers  here  below, 

Are  working  better  than  they  know. 

Small,  small  indeed,  their  work  appears, 

After  the  toil  of  weary  years. 

They  carve  and  polish  day  by  day, 

Till  God  removes  their  work  away  ; 

And  bids  them  lay  their  soiled  robes  by, 

And  rise  to  immortality. 

O  glad  surprise  !  O  glorious  sight ! 

Their  work  revealed  in  heaven's  clear  light, 

Sparkles  a  pure  and  precious  gem, 

In  Jesu's  royal  diadem. 


252  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

O  !  ye  who  found  this  Orphan's  Home  ! 
Your  full  reward  is  yet  to  come. 
Press  on  :  eternal  years  will  show 
How  well  you've 'done  your  work  below  ; 
You'll  hear  that  voice  of  harmony, 
Whose  echoes  fill  Eternity, 
Proclaiming,  while  the  angel  choir 
Shall  swell  their  holy  anthem  higher ; 
"These  little  ones  are  saved  through  thee 
Fear  not !  ye  did  it  unto  me." 


IHtrtoartr  Bean  Kantr. 

E.  D.  Rand  was  born  in  Bath,  December  26, 1821.  Soon  after  graduation  at  Wes- 
leyan  University  he  went  to  New  Orleans,  studied  law  there,  and  practised  till 
1855,  when  he  returned  to  his  native  State  and  settled  in  Littleton.  In  1861  he  re 
moved  to  Lisbon.  He  was  made  judge  of  the  circuit  court  in  1874,  and  two  years 
afterwards  he  returned  to  the  bar,  The  real  spirit  of  poetry  pervades  Mr.  Rand's 
verses,  v  He  has  kindly  furnished  some  original  pieces  for  this  volume. 


BEHIND  THE  VEIL. 

Lo  !  the  marvellous  contrast  of  shadow  and  light, — 
Of  shadows  that  darken  and  lights  that  adorn  ; 
And  after  the  day  comes  the  shadow}'  night, 
And  after  the  night  come  the  splendors  of  morn. 

And  raptures  and  sorrows  through  all  the  brief  years 
Keep  crossing  to  weave  in  the  web  of  our  life, 
Till  another  the  greatest  of  shadows  appears, 
To  hush  into  stillness  the  tumult  and  strife. 

And  thou,  Shadow  of  shadows,  the  darkest  of  all, 
Concealing  what  has  been  and  what  is  to  be, 
That  liest  on  life  and  its  joys  like  a  pall, 
Oh  !  what  is  the  splendor,  that  lies  behind  thee  ? 


TO 


Far  away  from  the  purple-hued  mountains, 
Far  away  from  the  flower-sprinkled  lea  ; 
Away  from  the  streams  and  the  fountains, 
Alone — by  the  dim,  misty  rim  of  the  sea, 

Looking  out  on  the  limitless  ocean, 

Looking  out  on  the  low-lying  sand, 

No  charm  can  I  see  in  the  motion 

Of  waves — or  the  stillness  that  rests  on  the  strand. 

Men  speak  of  the  glories  and  wonders, 
That  haunt  the  dim,  mystical  sea ; 


EDWAED  DEAN  RAND.  ,        253 

But  bright  to  my  eyes  are  the  splendors 
Alone —  that  speak  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

Far  up  in  the  heart  of  the  highlands, 
Fondly  dreaming,  I  stand  by  thy  side, 
And  I  look  on  the  sea  and  its  islands 
No  more — and  I  hear  not  the  wearisome  tide. 

Ah  !  sad  as  the  winds  of  December, 

Is  the  unceasing  song  of  the  sea ; 

But  the  music  of  songs  I  remember 

Is  sweet — when  I  walked  in  the  woodlands  with  thee. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

The  spirit  hath  taken  its  flight, 

Where  the  land  and  the  waters  meet, 

And  never  a  nobler  fight 

Was  crowned  with  immortal  defeat. 

O  !  weak  as  the  opening  air 

To  the  pressure  of  death-dealing  darts 
Is  the  burden  of  innermost  prayer, 

From  millions  of  agonized  hearts. 

And  vain  is  the  vigilant  skill 

That  watches  m3rsterious  laws, 
And  vainer  the  dominant  will, 

That  clings  to  a  perishing  cause. 

Dead  !  by  the  murmuring  shore 
Of  the  cold  and  passionless  sea ; 

O  !  brave,  noble  heart,  nevermore, 
Can  its  voices  be  music  to  thee. 

Released  from  the  wearisome  strife, 
The  torture  of  laboring  breath, — 

Up,  into  the  glory  of  life, 

That  gleams  through  the  shadow  of  death. 


GROWING  OLD. 

From  success  in  its  pride  and  defeat  in  its  shame, 
From  the  la'ter  repose,  and  the  earlier  strife, 
The  half  that  we  learn  is  but  knowledge  in  name, 
And  dark  is  the  myst'ry  that  broods  over  life. 

I  smile  at  the  hopes  and  the  dreams  of  my  }Touth— 
Brief  splendors  of  morning  with  clouds  overcast ! 


254         „  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Yet  something  of  worth,  which  I  cling  to,  in  sooth, 
Have  I  wrung  from  the  vanishing  years  as  they  passed. 

I  have  painfully  tested  the  Old  and  the  New, 

Learned  what  to  distrust  and  what  to  believe  ; 

Gained  a  knowledge  of  things  that  are  steadfast  and  true, 

And  a  knowledge  of  things  that  will  cheat  and  deceive  ; 

Of  the  uncertain  fame  of  the  pen  and  the  sword  ; 
Of  the  pride  that  arises  from  ill-gotten  gain  ; 
Of  the  glory  of  labor  that  seeks  no  reward, 
But  silently  carries  its  burden  of  pain ; 

Of  the  courage  that  faces  and  tramples  on  death ; 
Of  the  garrulous  grief,  which  time  will  assuage ; 
Of  the  bubbles  that  sparkle  and  break  with  a  breath ; 
Of  the  love  that  grows  warmer  and  sweeter  with  age  ; 

Of  the  valor  that  turns  from  a  glittering  cause, 
In  the  day  and  the  hour  of  its  noisy  success, 
To  worship  the  strength  and  the  stillness  of  laws, 
That  endure  through  the  ages  and  seons  that  pass. 

But  alas  !  for  the  knowledge  that  comes  with  the  flight 

Of  the  hours  ;  for  a  sorrowful  thing  'tis  to  know 

Of  the  increasing  shadow  and  lessening  light, 

As  the  days  and  the  months  and  the  3'ears  come  and  go. 

The  friends  of  my  boyhood  and  youth,  one  by  one, 
And  the  1'riends  that  my  manhood  held  dear,  like  the  gleams 
Of  a  warm,  sweet  summer  remembered,  have  gone 
Quite  out  of  my  life,  and  into  my  dreams. 

And  the  glow,  and  the  wealth  of  the  morning  have  passed. 
And  the  fulness  of  noon  grown  empty  and  cold ; 
And  I  feel  all  the  sadness  that  must  come  at  last, 
Of  thoughts  that  are  barren,  and  limbs  that  are  old. 

Yet  I  welcome  the  sadness,  and  weakness  of  limb, 
For  I  know  that  the  lights  from  the  City  of  Rest, 
Shine  clearer  to  him,  whose  eyes  have  grown  dim, 
In  watching  the  shadows,  that  grow  in  the  West. 


William  C.  Sturoc  was  born  at  Arbroath,  Forfarshire,  Scotland  Nov.  4,  182-2,  and 
received  his  elementary  education,  at  the  "Hamilton  Green"  and  "Grimsby"  schools 
of  his  native  town.  When  a  mere  lad  he  arrived  in  Montreal,  Canada,  and  remain- 


WILLIAM  CANT  STUROC.  255 

ed  there  till  July  1850,  when  he  came  to  Newport,  and  almost  immediately  com 
menced  the  study  of  law  in  the  office  of  Edmund  Burke.  In  1855  he  was  acfmitted 
to  the  bar,  and  settled  in  Sunapee.  Although  he  has  not  been  in  active  practice, 
his  legal  reading  is  still  close  and  extensive.  In  18(io,  '66,  '67,  and  '68,  he  represent 
ed  his  town  in  the  State  Legislature,  and  was  a  prominent  and  active  member. 
His  speeches,  on  all  occasions,  commanded  attention  :  for  he  has  a  fervid  and  earn 
est  manner  as  a  speaker,  and  combines — which  is  often  not  the  case — an  equal  read 
iness  with  tongue  and  pen.  He  has  contributed  largely  to  the  letter  press  of  an  ex 
pensive  illustrated  work  just  published  at  his  native  place  by  T.  Buncle,  entitled 
"Round  about  the  'Round  O'  with  its  Poets :"  and  is  also  given  a  large  space  in  the 
4th  vol.  of  "Modern  Scottish  Poets,"  published  by  D.  H.  Edwards,  Brechen,  Scot 
land,  last  December. 


THE  POET'S  MITE. 

An  ancient  epitaph  thus  quaintly  reads, 

Engraved  on  marble,  o'er  the  worthy  dead  : 
"Whate'er  we  had,  to  meet  our  human  needs, 

We  freely  gave  to  feed  the  poor  with  bread  ; 
And  all  we  gave  with  free  and  kindly  will 

We  have  once  more — the  darksome  river  crossed  ; 
But  what  we  left,  that  went  no  void  to  fill, 

We  ne'er  shall  find, — 'twas  profitless,  'tis  lost !" 

So  what  we  have  of  gifts  and  graces  given 

Are  only  lent  us  for  life's  little  da}' : 
Nor  shall  we  do  the  high  behest  of  Heaven 

If  gifts  are  hidden,  or  be  cast  away  ; 
And  whom  the  hand  of  destiny  hath  sealed 

As  seer  and  singer  for  his  fellows  all, 
'Tis  his  to  scatter  o'er  earth's  fertile  field 

The  seeds  that  drop  at  Inspiration's  call. 

And  what  he  sows  amid  the  mist  of    tears, 

Or  in  the  sunshine  of  the  fairest  May, 
Perchance  shall  blossom  through  the  future  years, 

And  charm  the  nations,  near  and  far  away  ! 
On  wings  of  light  his  raptured  dreams  may  soar, 

Through  every  clime  in  earth's  remotest  bound, 
And  break  in  beauty  on  the  glittering  shore, 

Where  ebb  and  flow  the  waves  of  thought  profound ! 

Then  let  me  sing !  O  worldling,  let  me  sing ! 

Mayhap  my  warblings  with  their  notes  of  cheer, 
Will  heal  some  heart  that  cherishes  a  sting, 

Or  wake  the  hopeless  from  their  sleep  of  fear ! 
And  thus  I  give  what  first  to  me  is  given  ; 

My  heart  still  grasping  at  the  good  and  true, 
And  trust  the  rest  to  high  and  holy  Heaven, 

Which  measures  doing  by  the  power  to  do. 


256  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

MARY. 

I  saw  a  vision  in  my  boyish  days, 

So  bright,  so  pure,  that  in  my  raptur'd  dreaming, 
Its  tints  of  em'rald,  and  its  golden  rays 

Had  more  of  heavenly  than  of  earthl}'  seeming ; 
The  roseate  valley  and  the  sunlit  mountain, 

Alike,  enchanted  as  by  wand  of  fairy, 
Breathed  out,  as  from  a  high  and  holy  fountain, 

On  flower  and  breeze,  the  lovely  name  of  Mary. 

That  youthful  vision  time  hath  not  effaced, 

But  year  by  year  the  cherish'd  dream  grew  deeper, 
And  Memory's  hand,  at  midnight  hour  oft  traced, 

Once  more,  the  faithful  vision  of  the  sleeper ; 
No  chance  or  change  could  ever  chase  away 

This  idol-thought,  that  o'er  my  life  would  tarry, 
And  lead  me,  in  the  darkest  hours,  to  say — 

"My  better  angel  is  my  hoped-for  Mary." 

The  name  was  fix'd — a  fact  of  Fate's  recording — • 

And  swayed  by  magic  all  this  single  heart, 
The  strange  decree  disdained  a  novel  wording, 

And  would  not  from  my  happy  future  part ; 
As  bright  'twas  writ,  as  is  the  milky-way — 

The  bow  of  promise  in  a  sky  unstarry, — 
That  shed  its  light  and  shone  with  purest  ray, 

Through  cloud  and  tempest,  round  the  name  of  Mary. 

Burns  hymn'd  his  "Mary,"  when  her  soul  had  pass'd 

Away  from  earth,  and  all  its  sin  and  sorrow ; 
But  mine  has  been  the  spirit  that  hath  cast 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  on  each  blessed  morrow  ; 
And  crown'd  at  last,  this  trusting  heart  hath  been, 

With  fruits  of  faith,  that  nought  on  earth  could_vary, 
For  I  have  lived  until  my  e}Tes  have  seen 

The  vision  real,  in  the  form  of  Mary. 


WASHINGTON. 

Oh  Patriot  Sage  !  Columbia's  dearest  son  ! 
Our  country's  Father  !  famous  Washington  ! 
How  shall  we  sing — 
How  homage  bring, 
To  deck  the  memory  of  the  noblest  soul 

That  ever  spent  a  grand  and  glorious  life  ? 
Who  led  in  triumph  to  fair  freedom's  goal, 
Nor  faltered  mid  the  darkness  of  the  strife. 


WILLIAM  CANT  STUBOC.  257 


Oh  mighty  soldier  !  first  in  war's  alarms 
Undaunted  when  the  trumpet  call  "To  arms  !" 
Roused  men  to  stand, 
Throughout  the  land, 
For  home  and  freedom,  'gainst  oppression's  power. 

Thou  God-appointed  chief,  our  guide  and  stay  ; 
Our  firm  reliance  in  the  midnight  hour 

That  shook  the  strongest  mid  the  bloody  fray. 

Oh  matchless  statesman  !  first  and  best  in  peace  ! 
Still  calm  and  mighty  when  red  war's  surcease 
Claimed  hands  deep  skilled 
To  plan  and  build — 
Far  from  the  despot's  or  the  anarch's  grasp — 

The  glorious  fabric  of  a  nation  free, 
Each  stone  sure  fastened  with  the  golden  clasp 
Of  wisdom,  strength,  and  state  fraternity. 

Oh  first  within  the  bosom  of  thy  countrymen  ! 
Thy  name  and  fame  shall  evermore  remain 
Without  a  peer, 
To  millions  dear. 
The  silent  circumspection  of  thy  heart 

Did  slander's  shafts  full  oft  but  vainly  try ; 
Thy  faith  no  tempest  shock  could  part ; 
Thy  ark  and  anchor,  human  liberty  ! 

Long  may  we  guard,  as  with  a  flaming  sword, 
The  sacred  volume  of  Columbia's  word, 
That  when  our  day 
Shall  pass  away, 
Our  children's  children,  to  the  latest  hour, 

Shall  peal  their  anthems  down  from  sire  to  son. 
As  now  we  grateful  bless  the  Heavenly  Power 
That  gave  our  own  immortal  Washington  ! 


LAKE  SUNAPEE. 

Once  more  my  muse  !  from  rest  of  many  a  year, 
Come  forth  again  and  sing,  as  oft  of  yore ; 

Now  lead  my  steps  to  where  the  crags  appear 
In  silent  grandeur,  by  the  rugged  shore 

That  skirts  the  margin  of  thy  waters  free, 

Lake  of  my  mountain  home,  loved  Sunapee ! 

Meet  invocation  to  the  pregnant  scene, 

Where,  long  ere  yet  the  white  man's  foot  had  come, 


258  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Roam'd  wild  and  free  the  daring  Algonquin, 
And  where  perchance  the  stately  Metacom 
Inspired  his  braves  with  that  poetic  strain 
Which  cheer'd  the  Wampanoags,  but  cheer'd  in  vain. 

Clear  mountain  mirror !  who  can  tell  but  thou 
Hast  borne  the  red  man  in  his  light  canoe, 

As  fleetly  on  thy  bosom  as  e'en  now 

Thou  bear'st  the  paleface  o'er  thy  waters  blue  ; 

And  who  can  tell  but  nature's  children  then, 

Were  rich  and  happy  as  the  mass  of  men? 

Sweet  Granite  Katrine  of  this  mountain  land  ! 

Oh  jewel  set  amid  a  scene  so  fair ! 
Kearsarge,  Ascutney,  rise  on  either  hand, 

While  Grantham  watches  with  a  lover's  care, 
And  Sunapee  to  Croj'don  sends  in  glee 
A  greeting  o'er  thy  silvery  breast,  Lake  Sunapee  ! 

How  grand,  upon  a  moonlit  eve,  to  glide 
Upon  thy  waters,  'twixt  the  mountains  high, 

And  gaze  within  thy  azure  crystal  tide, 

On  trembling  shadows  of  the  earth  and  sky  ; 

While  all  is  silent,  save  when  trust}*"  oar 

Awakes  an  echo  from  thy  slumbering  shore  ! 

Ah  !  where  shall  mortals  holier  ground  espy, 
From  which  to  look  where  hope  doth  point  the  gaze, 

Than  from  the  spot  that  speaks  a  Deity, 
In  hoary  accents  of  primeval  praise  ? 
And  where  shall  man  a  purer  altar  find 

From  which  to  worship  the  Almighty  mind? 

Roll  on,  sweet  lake  !  and  if  perchance  thy  form 
Laves  less  of  earth  than  floods  of  western  fame, 

Yet  still  we  love  thee,  in  the  calm  or  storm, 
And  call  thee  ours  by  many  a  kindly  name  ; 

What  patriot  heart  but  loves  the  scenes  that  come 

O'er  memory's  sea,  to  breathe  a  tale  of  home. 

And  when  the  winter,  in  its  frozen  thrall, 
Binds  up  thy  locks  in  braids  of  icy  wreath, 

Forget  we  not  thy  cherished  name  to  call, 
In  fitting  shadow  of  the  sleep  of  death ; 

But  morn  shall  dawn  upon  our  sleep,  and  we, 

As  thou  in  springtime,  wake,  sweet  Sunapee  ! 


WILLIAM  CANT  STUROC.  259 

THE  UNREWARDED. 

How  oft  the  olden  story 

Of  struggle  after  glor}r, 
Hath  echoed  sadly  down  the  faded  ages ! 
How  oft  the  scant  but  deathl}-  wages, 

The  toiler  has  been  paid  ; 

And,  all  neglected  laid 
In  kind  and  kindred  mold,  unsung,  unwept ; 

His  pregnant  tale  securely,  sadly  kept ! 

And  still,  Time's  seething  spray, 

Rolls  over  earth  to-day, 
And  rimes  the  locks  of  Genius,  as  of  old ; 
And  poets  sing,  amid  the  scorn  so  cold, 

The  deaf  dead  sons  of  men, 

Deal  out,  again,  again, 
Till  the  poor  shivering  hungry  tenement 
Is  buried  out  of  sight — hope  crush'd — heart  rent ! 

Then  comes  the  blatant  grief, 

As  hollow  as  'tis  brief, 

That  wails  above  Cervantes,  and  o'er  Burns ; 
And  gives  the  cold  dead  dust,  in  golden  urns  ; 

What  had  been  best  bestowed, 

While  warm  blood  quickly  flowed 
About  the  dreaming,  agonizing  heart, 
That  hoped  in  vain,  till  soul  and  blood  did  part ! 

Oh  Genius  !  tell  me  why 

'Tis  thus  your  fate  to  die 

Of  hunger,  while  the  stark  dumb  beasts  are  fed? 
Why  does  the  singer  often  lack  for  bread  ; 

Or  frantic,  bite  the  dust ; 

Or  gnaw  the  beggar's  crust ; 
Or,  choked  like  Otway  ;  or  like  Chatterton, 
Scowl  on  a  stony  world,  and  then  pass  on? 

Good  heavens  !     I  inly  pray, 

That  all  may  swift  decaj- — 
Proud  heart,  and  fancy-freighted  brain — 
When  from  the  rapt  Parnassian  domain, 

With  all  its  gifts  secure, 

I  fall,  so  sunken  poor, 

As  not  to  spurn  the  dead  clods  where  they  lie,. 
And  plume  my  wing  for  yet  a  loftier,  sky  ! 


260  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


?5ugene 


Kugene  Baohelder  was  a  native  of  New  Ipswich.  He  removed  to  Saw,  Me.  in 
1KH  ;  to  Cambridge,  Mas8.,  in  1844;  graduated  from  Harvard  Law  School,  class  of 
1845;  married  in  1864,  and  from  that  time  to  his  decease  in  1878,  resided  at  Dover, 
Mass.  Mr.  Bachelder  never  practised  law  to  any  great  extent,  its  details  not  being 
congenial  to  his  temperament.  He  published  many  poems,  which  were  considered  of 
much  merit,  and  of  which  "A  Romance  of  the  Sea  Serpent"  passed  through  lour  cili- 
tions.  With  his  literary  efforts,  he  engaged  in  the  cultivation  of  the  noil,  and  hi 
that  department  was  quite  successful. 


THE  UNION. 

Where  is  the  spirit  our  fathers  felt? 

Where  are  the  hopes  that  grew 
When  in  prayer  on  the  battle-field  they  knelt, 

And  swore  to  be  brave  and  true? 
When  lifting  high  the  armed  hand, 

And  bowing  the  plumed  head, 
They  prayed — ktOh  God !  may  the  Union  stand  !" 

Then  rushed  where  the  valiant  bled. 

Has  that  hallowed  influence  fled  ? 

Those  hopes  from  our  heart  died  out? 
Is  that  prayer,  and  that  spirit  wholly  dead  ? 

Are  our  minds  and  souls  less  stout? 
We  need  not  pray  where  our  fathers  prayed, 

In  the  ranks  of  a  steadfast  band ; 
But  we'll  say,  like  heroes  undismayed, 

"Oh  God  !  may  this  Union  stand  ! 


FAIR  COLUMBIA. 

The  life  we  live  we  live  for  thee, 

Columbia,  fair  Columbia ! 
No  land  so  happy,  fair  and  free, 

As  happy,  fair  Columbia  ! 
Brave  souls  are  battling  for  the  right, 
Brave  hearts  are  rushing  to  the  fight, 
The  nation  rises  in  its  might, 

For  happy,  fair,  Columbia  ! 

Weep  for  the  gallant  valiant  men 

Who  die  for  fair  Columbia  ! 
They  shall  arise  to  life  again, 

Above  our  fair  Columbia ! 
Ah !  yes,  to  life  immortal  rise, 
And  form  an  army  in  the  skies, 
To  guard  the  freedom  freemen  prize, 
And  shield  our  fair  Columbia  ! 


JOSEPH  BROWN  SMITH.  261 

Hark  !  to  a  patriot's  loud  appeal, 

Columbia,  fair  Columbia ! 
My  mother-land  to  thee  I  kneel, 

In  prayer  for  Columbia. 
Thy  glorious  chivalry  shall  rise 
With  dauntless  hearts,  and  eagle  eyes, 
And  wave  victorious  to  the  skies 

Thy  banner,  fair  Columbia  ! 

Oh  God  !  shall  mortal  man  control 

In  happy,  fair  Columbia  ! 
The  life  of  one  immortal  soul, 

In  happ}',  free  Columbia? 
No  !  better  that  the  traitor  knaves 
Were  heaped  by  thousands  in  their  graves, 
Who  boast  they'd  make  all  freemen  slaves, 

In  happy,  fair  Columbia ! 

No !  high  above,  in  clouds  of  light, 

Above  our  fair  Columbia 
Sits  God,  the  Arbiter  of  fight, 

The  Shield  of  fair  Columbia ! 
There  hosts  on  hosts  of  angels  bright 
Are  battling  with  us  for  the  right, 
God's  arm  the  rebel  horde  shall  smite, 

And  free  our  fair  Columbia ! 


Joseph  B.  Smith,  a  native  of  Dover,  was  born  March  14, 1823.  At  birth  his  sight 
was  perfect,  but  before  he  was  two  weeks  old  a  disease  fastened  upon  his  eyes, 
which  resulted  in  total  blindness.  When  three  years  of  age  he  lost  his  father. 
His  mother  then  removed  to  Portsmouth,  where  he  lived  six  years.  In  1832  he 
went  to  the  institution  of  the  blind,  in  Boston,  where  he  spent  eight  years.  In 
1840  he  entered  Harvard  College  and  graduated  in  1844.  He  then  went  to  Louis 
ville,  Ky.,  and  became  Professor  of  Music  in  the  Kentucky  Institution  for  the 
Blind.  He  died  in  that  city,  May  6,  1859.  He  was  a  good  scholar  in  Latin,  Greek 
and  Mathematics.  He  had  rare  musical  powers,  and  appreciated  and  enjoyed 
music  of  the  highest  order.  In  that  he  reveled.  His  soul  responded  to  the  songs 
and  choral  symphonies  in  which  the  great  masters  gave  expression  to  thoughts  and 
emotions  too  vast  for  words,  too  deep  for  tears.  He  wrote  a  few  occasional 
poems,  some  of  which  were  printed  in  raised  letters  for  the  blind.  . 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

My  mother  dear,  while  every  thought  and  feeling 

Vibrates  responsive  to  some  note  of  glee, 
And  visions,  fraught  with  pleasure  o'er  me  stealing, 

Tell  of  the  past,  I'll  sing  a  song  to  thee  : 
No  wail  of  discontent,  no  tone  of  sadness, 

Shall  mingle  with  the  music  of  my  lyre, 
But  ev'ry  chord  shall  speak  my  spirit's  gladness, 

And  peaceful  murmurs  breathe  from  every  wire.  x 


2(52  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

'Twas  then  with  tender  care,  with  love  unceasing, 

In  helplessness  my  little  life  to  keep, 
Ere  I  could  know  whence  came  the  fond  caressing, 

Or  contemplate  a  love  so  pure  and  deep  ; 
And  when  thou  sawest  that  vision  was  denied  me, 

That  tree  and  flower  could  have  no  charm  for  me, 
Oft  hast  thou,  rent  with  anguish,  sat  beside  me, 

And  wept  to  think  I  ne'er  might  look  on  thee. 

To  feel  I  could  not  know  when  thou  wast  gazing 

In  fond  delight  upon  thy  sightless  child — 
Nor,  while  my  darkened  ej'e-balls  upward  raising, 

Return  that  mother's  look  so  calm  and  mild ; 
That  grief  is  past,  for,  though  I  never  knew  thee 

Through  the  soft  language  of  an  earthly  sight, 
In  thought  by  day,  in  dreams  by  night,  I  view  thee 

With  the  soul's  eye,  in  beams  of  clearer  light. 

Mother,  adieu  !  whate'er  the  time  or  distance, 

Or  adverse  fate  that  sunders  us,  may  be, 
Still  kept  and  cherished  as  my  own  existence 

Shall  be  the  mem'ry  of  thy  love  for  me : 
As  the  young  stork,  almost  endued  with  reason, 

His  aged  parent  on  his  pinion  bears, 
So  I  look  forward  to  that  happy  season, 

When  I  may  bear  th}r  burden  and  thy  cares. 


HYMN. 

Afraid  to  die  !  O,  idle  fear, 
Since  God,  our  Father,  is  so  near, 
With  loving  arms  to  clasp  the  soul, 
Released  from  pain  and  earth's  control. 

Afraid  to  die  !  O,  idle  thought, 

Since  Christ  the  immortal  life  hath  brought 

So  clearly  to  our  raptured  eyes, 

How  can  we  shrink  from  paradise. 

Afraid  to  die  !  O,  idle  words  ; 
Some  we  have  loved  are  now  the  Lord's ; 
The}-  long  to  share  the  joys  they  know 
With  us  who  still  remain  below. 

Afraid  to  die  ?  no,  Father,  no  ; 
When  thou  shalt  call,  I'll  gladly  go; 
In  death  or  life  I  would  be  thine, 
And  to  thy  will  ray  own  resign. 


DANIEL  AUGUSTUS  DROWN.  263 


Bantel  Augustus 


D.  A.  Drown  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  April  17,  1823.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  College  in  1844,  About  four  months  after  leaving  college  his  eyesight  became 
suddenly  affected.  Relief  was  at  first  sought  in  various  directions  and  Dy  various 
means,  but  in  vain.  A  European  visit  resulted  in  like  disappointment.  Since  that 
time,  now  more  than  thirty  -five  years,  he  has  been  confined  to  a  darkened  room  tor 
tured  by  almost  incessant  pain,  rendering  life  bereft  of  its  greatest  enjoyment. 
Notwithstanding  this  painful  condition,  he  has  struggled  hard  to  alleviate  his  suf 
ferings  by  occasional  literary  efforts.  A  vivid  recollection  of  his  classical  studies 
has  served  to  mitigate  the  hardness  of  his  lot.  A  resolute  and  abiding  Christian 
faith,  fortified  by  the  tender  and  sympathising  utterances  of  disinterested  friends.has 
enabled  him  thus  far  to  bear  the  heavy  burden  so  myteriously  placed  upon  him. 
In  1873  an  elegant  volume  containing  115  of  his  poems  was  issued  from  the  press  of 
Kami,  Avery  &  Co.  It  is  entitled  "Idyls  of  Strawberry  Bank."  It  is  an  interesting 
volume  of  excellent  poetry,  illustrated  with  engravings. 


BEAUTIFUL  IS   MOONLIGHT. 

Beautiful  is  moonlight,  flashing  through  the  trees, 
Kissing  trembling  leaflets  ruffled  by  the  breeze, 
Gilding  branch  and  flower  with  a  mellow  hue, 
Giving  each  new  beauty,  charming  to  the  view. 
With  a  chain  of  silver  earth  and  heaven  unite  ; 
Peaceful  thoughts  fly  homeward,  up  the  shining  height ; 
Thence  our  hearts  will  follow  to  that  other  shore, 
Where  true  beauty  lingers,  fadeless  evermore. 

Beautiful  is  moonlight  resting  on  the  billow, 
Softly  as  an  infant  on  its  downy  pillow ; 
The  blue  waters  bridging  with  a  golden  way, 
As  if  paved  with  jewels  by  the  god  of  day. 
O'er  this  shining  pathway  fancy  oft  will  roam, 
And  behold  pure  spirits  passing  to  their  home, 
By  the  fragrant  zeplryrs  swiftly  fanned  along, 
While  the  blessed  angels  chant  their  sweetest  song. 

O'er  the  fields  of  clover  swift  the  moonbeams  glide. 
Shooting  o'er  dark  vallej-s  where  the  streamlets  hide, 
Lighting  up  the  meadows,  where  the  crystal  dew 
Sparkles  on  the  herbage,  cooling  it  anew. 
Through  the  woods  and  orchards  their  glowing  track  is  seen, 
Smilingly  "bo-peeping"  through  the  branches  green  ; 
While  the  fragrant  blossoms,  touched  with  silver  glow, 
Whisper  to  each  other  approvingly,  I  know. 

What  a  flood  of  glory  bathes  the  fields  and  flowers  ! 
What  inspiring  stillness  charms  the  midnight  hours  ! 
What  a  gush  of  feeling  wells  up  from  the  soul, 
While  the  grateful  anthems  through  its  arches  roll ! 
And  the  very  silence  beautifies  the  scene, 
Blending  all  the  glory  with  a  joy  serene, 
As  the  gentle  whispers  of  a  Father's  love 
Lead  the  willing  spirit  to  its  home  above. 


264  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Beauteous  moonlight  evenings  have  a  silent  power, 
Soothing  oft  the  weary  in  a  troubled  hour, 
When  inspired  voices  sing  within  the  breast, 
Telling  their  glad  stor}-, — perfect,  endless  rest. 
Let  my  fancy  revel  with  the  moonbeams  bright, 
Though  I  do  not  gaze  upon  their  silver  light, 
By  and  by  made  perfect,  on  the  "shining  shore," 
I'll  view  all  its  glories,  happy  evermore. 


MAY-FLOWERS. 

Sweet  gifts  of  May,  fair  blossoms  of  the  spring  ! 
Your  fragrant  breath  proclaims  to  me 
That  sunny  days  have  smiled  on  thee, 
And  warmed  thee  into  life  again, 
'Mid  melting  snows  and  April  rain  ; 

And  now  my  muse  thy  praise  would  sing. 

What  pleasant  thoughts  your  dewy  petals  bring 

Of  former  days  of  sun  and  shower, 

When  blooming  health  blest  every  hour ; 

When  bud  and  blossom,  leaf  and  tree, 

In  early  spring  gave  joy  to  me  ! 
To  all  those  years  what  sunny  memories  cling ! 

Fair  buds  of  May,  what  trust  th}r  frail  lives  teach  ! 

Though  veiled  beneath  the  drifted  snow, 

A  calm  repose  ye  found  below 

Green  ferns  and  mosses  of  the  wood, 

Content  with  thine  own  solitude, 
Sure  that  the  sun's  bright  beams  thy  couch  would  reach, 

And  smile  as  mothers  smile  upon  the  face 
Of  little  ones  in  peaceful  rest, 
Glad  to  obey  their  first  behest, 
When  new  life  wakens  with  the  light, 
When  angels  cease  their  watch  by  night, 

And  give  to  each  fair  child  new  strength  and  grace. 

Sweet  children,  come  !  come,  whisper  in  my  ear 
With  fragrant  breath  the  lesson  taught 
By  Him  whose  loving  care  is  fraught 
With  precious  blessings,  numbered  o'er 
For  all  his  children,  rich  and  poor, 

That  I  may  ever  feel  his  presence  near. 


DANIEL  A  UG  U8TU8  DR 0  WN.  265 

Oh  !  let  my  faith  be  strong  in  him  each  day  ; 
So  that  in  every  darksome  hour, 
When  shadows  round  my  tent  may  lower, 
Or  when  my  sky  glows  bright  with  love, 
Proceeding  from  the  throne  above, 

I  e'er  may  learn  sweet  trust  from  "flowers  of  May." 


THE  OLD  ELM. 

I  love  the  old  elm  in  the  orchard, 

Which  slopes  to  the  edge  of  the  stream, 
Where,  with  the  fresh  spirits  of  boyhood,        « 

I  passed  through  life's  sunniest  dream  : 
Its  boughs  towered  high  in  their  grandeur, 

Far  up  in  the  fair  azure  sky, 
Where  songsters  might  nestle  their  offspring, 

And  mischief  could  never  come  nigh. 

Its  roots,  once  most  firmly  embedded, 

Were  washed  by  the  oft-flowing  tide, 
Which  told  to  all  sorrowing  schoolboys, 

It  might  not  much  longer  abide. 
We  made  of  its  long-running  fibres 

Some  fairy-like  baskets  at  will, 
Which  earned  such  acceptable  praises 

As  if  wrought  with  magical  skill. 

I  think  of  the  well-chosen  hollow 

In  the  clean,  grassy-carpeted  ground, 
Where  caps  filled  with  apples  were  carried, 

And  desserts  for  evening  were  found  ; 
When,  gathered  in  circles  most  friendly, 

And  cosey  as  birds  in  a  nest, 
We  listened  to  tales  oft  repeated, 

Exciting  each  juvenile  breast. 

How  often  those  tales,  which  in  childhood 

Are  mentioned  as  fanciful  things, 
Are  found  in  life's  warfare  more  truthful, 

In  facts  which  experience  brings  ! 
How  oft  are  those  bright,  sunny  mornings, 

When  shadows  as  strangers  are  known, 
Exchanged  for  those  lone,  cheerless  evenings, 

When  moon  into  twilight  has  grown ! 

Yes :  j-outh  has  its  charms  and  its  pleasures, 
And  manhood  its  joys  and  its  fears  ; 


26C  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Both  leaving  on  memory's  tablet 
The  well-written  record  of  years. 

And  while  through  life's  garden  we  ramble, 
To  gather  once  more  its  bright  flowers, 

How  often  each  scene  then  reminds  us 
Of  some  of  our  happiest  hours  ! 

The  elm  with  its  grandeur  has  fallen, 

A  vestige  no  longer  remains  ; 
The  birds  have  all  ceased  in  its  branches 

To  sing  their  melodious  strains  ; 
And  the  boys  who  once  pla}*ed  in  its  shadow 

Are  scattered  wide  over  the  earth, 
Denied  those  exuberant  feelings 

Which  innocent  childhood  gave  birth. 

Although  both  the  elm  and  the  orchard 

Have  passed  long  ago  from  our  sight, 
And  the  hum  of  the  unwearied  steam-mill 

Is  heard  now  by  da}'  and  b}*  night ; 
Still  round  that  old  spot  there  yet  cluster 

Bright  visions  of  scenes  that  are  past, 
And  a  savor  of  freshness  and  gladness, 

Which  will  ever  in  memory  last. 


JESUS,  MY  HOPE. 

With  hope  in  Christ,  I  fear  no  ill, 
For  his  right  hand  supports  me  still ; 
Though  trials  here  my  paths  surround, 
I  boast  in  him  my  strength  is  found. 
He  will  supply  sustaining  grace 
To  those  who  seek  with  love  his  face. 

When  clouds  around  my  tent  prevail, 
And  gloomy  thoughts  my  peace  assail ; 
When  cherished  hopes  are  severed  here,. 
Where  strong  hearts  know  the  bitter  tear, 
In  him  a  safe  retreat  I  find : 
A  refuge  from  each  stormy  wind. 

When  bound  by  sad  affliction's  chain, 
Oppressed  with  grief,  beset  with  pain  ; 
When  tedious  days  new  troubles  weave, 
So  that  to  dust  my  soul  would  cleave, 
One  lively  hope  illumes  the  night : 
Jesus  is  near,  though  veiled  from  sight. 


ADALIZA  CUTLEE  PHELPS.  2G7 


When  joy  and  love  expand  their  wings, 

My  heart  with  wonder  often  sings, 

That  I  have  found,  in  one  so  dear, 

A  bosom  friend,  forever  near, 

Who  will  his  promises  defend, 

And  ne'er  forsake,  though  time  should  end. 

In  Jesus  all  my  peace  is  found  : 

He  makes  my  purest  joys  abound  ; 

He  bids  me  at  his  table  wait 

To  share  the  banquet  free  and  great. 

I  tarry  long :  my  soul  is  fed 

By  angel  hands  with  heavenly  bread. 

His  presence  I  more  highly  prize 
Than  all  the  gold  beneath  the  skies  : 
M}-  birthright  here  I  would  not  lose 
For  all  the  honors  I  could  choose  : 
More  precious  far  than  rubies  rare, 
His  words  my  cherished  treasures  are. 

Blest  Jesus  !  I  would  see  thy  face, 
In  whom  I  trust  for  every  grace  : 
Thy  friendly  counsels  I  would  hear, 
With  cheerful  heart  and  willing  ear. 
Oh  !  grant  me  still  thy  power  divine  : 
Thine  arms  of  love  still  round  me  twine. 


OTutler 


Mrs.  Phelps  was  a  native  of  Jaffrey,  born  in  1823.  In  that  town  she  was  eduea 
ted,  married,  and  lived  until  her  death  in  1852.  Her  poetical  works  are  contained 
in  a  closely  printed  volume,  published  by  John  P.  Jewett  and  Company,  Boston. 


TO  A  BIRD  IN  MIDWINTER. 

Say,  lovely  bird,  why  dost  thou  linger  here, 

Mid  scenes  so  dark,  so  desolate,  and  drear? 

No  summer  sun  is  shining  o'er  thy  head  ; 

The  leaves  are  scattered,  every  floweret  dead, 

The  grass  is  faded  on  the  breezy  hills, 

The  ice  hath  bound  the  streams  and  dancing  rills. 

Why  dost  thou  linger,  why  not  haste  away, 
Why  mid  the  winds  and  storms  prolong  thy  stay? 
No  gentle  breezes  fan  thy  downy  breast, 
Among  our  groves  thou  now  canst  find  no  .rest. 
Dark,  fearful  clouds  are  sailing  through  the  air ; 
King  Winter  brings  decay  to  all  things  fair. 


268  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Why  dost  thon  linger,  what  can  chain  thee  here? 
Doth  not  thy  little  heart  beat  wild  with  fear 
When  winds  are  blowing,  when  fierce  storms  arise, 
And  veil  in  darkness  the  bright  sunny  skies? 
When  snows  lie  deep  on  all  the  hills  around, 
And  no  green  spot,  no  shelt'ring  nook  is  found? 

Why  dost  thou  linger?  there  are  skies  more  fair, 
Where  flowers  ne'er  fade,  where  balmy  is  the  air  ; 
Where  richest  fruits  hang  on  the  waving  trees, 
And  cooling  winds  come  blowing  o'er  the  seas  ; 
There  forests,  fields  and  hills  are  ever  green, 
Winter's  dark  footsteps  never  there  are  seen. 


}T  dost  thou  linger?  there  thy  mates  are  gone, 
And  left  thee  here  forsaken  and  forlorn  ; 
There  they  are  sailing  through  a  sunny  sk}r, 
While  thou  art  waiting  here  to  droop  and  die  ; 
Thy  wing  is  wear}',  and  th}T  songs  are  o'er, 
And  thou  wilt  cheer  us  with  thy  notes  no  more. 

But  when  the  spring  returns,  when  winter  flies, 
And  when  the  sun  shines  brightly  in  the  skies, 
When  flowers  come  back,  and  the  green  leaves  appear, 
And  all  thy  mates  are  once  more  with  us  here, 
Thou  wilt  be  missing,  we  no  more  shall  see 
Thy  tiny  form  upon  the  forest  tree. 

But  thou  wilt  lie  all  still,  and  cold,  and  dead, 
Perchance  upon  some  violet's  blue  bed  ; 
Thy  bright  eye  closed,  broken  thy  shining  wing, 
While  o'er  thy  head  some  ga}'er  bird  may  sing  ; 
While  flowers  are  growing  round  thee  bright  and  fair, 
Music  and  sunshine  reigning  in  the  air. 


Jacot  l£trf)ari>53 

J.  R.  Dodge  was  born  in  New  Boston,  September  28, 1823.  After  learning  th« 
trade  of  printer  in  the  office  of  the  Amherst  Cabinet  he  finished  his  school  educa- 
tlon,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty  one  took  charge  of  an  academy  in  Mississippi,  where 
he  was  successf  ully  engaged  for  five  years  in  teaching.  He  was  editor  and  publish 
er  of  "The  Oasis"  in  Nashua  in  1849;  went  to  Ohio  in  1855,  and  engaged  in  a  manu 
facturing  enterprise  until  1857,  when  he  began  the  publication  of  an  agricultural 
newspaper,  the  American  Ruralist.  In  1801  he  became  Senate  Reporter  of  the 
National  Intelligencer  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  afterwards  was  Statistician  of  the 
Department  of  Agriculture  from  1866  to  1878.  During  this  period  while  editor  of 
the  Department  publications,  over  three  million  copies  of  the  annual  volume  were 
ordered  by  Congress,  and  as  many  issues  of  the  monthly  series  published,  besides 
many  miscellaneous  reports.  In  1873  he  spent  the  summer  in  Europe  in  the  work 
of  a  statistical  commission,  and  also  as  Honorary  Commissioner  to  the  Vienna 
Exhibition.  He  resigned  his  place  in  the  service  of  the  Department  of  Agri 
culture  in  1878,  with  the  intention  of  devoting  himself  to  journalism  and  agri 
cultural  literature,  for  which  he  has  a  passionate  taste,  but  was  persuaded  to 


JACOB  EICHARDS  DODGE.  269 

accept  a  temporary  commission  for  statistical  investigation  in  the  Treasury  Depart 
ment,  before  the  completion  of  which  he  was  tendered  the  charge  of  the  collection 
of  statistics  of  Agriculture  of  the  Census,  which  was  continued  from  1878  until  the 
present  year.  In  1881  he  again  accepted  the  position  in  the  Department  of  Agri 
culture  which  he  had  previously  held  for  twelve  years.  In  the  midst  of  this  busy 
and  progressive  life  Mr.  Dodge  has  found  little  time  for  authorship,  yet  he  has 
given  evidence  of  his  ability  in  his  "Red  Men  of  the  Ohio  Valley,"  a  history  of  the 
Indians  of  that  region,  and  hig  "West  Virginia,"  descriptive  of  its  resources.  In 
1881  Dartmouth  College  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts.  Mr. 
Dodge  insists  that  he  is  not  a  poet,  but  admits  that  in  early  youth  he  indulged  in  a 
rhyming  propensity. 


THE  MARINER'S  BETROTHED. 

I  hear  the  night  winds  wailing    For  oh  !  in  storm  so  cheerless 
Across  the  snowy  lea,  How  can  I  calmly  rest, 

Then  think  of  one  now  sailing  While  he,  the  brave  and  fearless, 
Far  o'er  the  stormy  sea.  Eludes  my  heart's  fond  quest? 

With  watchful  ear  I  hearken,     That  heart  inu  tumult  b?at in^' 
His  voice  haunts  every  sound,     As  »**  *•  wllltrJ*  Wast, 
While  fear,  my  hopes  to  darken, W^ere  5ashing  waves  are  meet" 

Casts  dismal  shades  around.      TT      ln&' 

Hopes  on  unto  the  last. 

Oh  no  !  I  did  not  hear  him,  Alonzo  ! — dying? — living? 

Away  far  o'er  the  main  ;  Beneath? — above  the  main  ? 

May  God  in  mercy  clear  him  Oh  heaven  !  thy  mercy  giving, 

From  ills  in  danger's  train.  Restore  him  safe  again  ! 

The  winds  may  chant  their  dirgesThTe  maiden  f^^r  speaking, 

Howl  o'er  the  billowy  deep,        *ausad  a"d  ^  ?*&?>.  , 
Yet  He  who  rolls  the  surges       She  heard  the  Wlld  wmds  sbnek- 

Will  bold  Alonzo  keep. 

She  heard — but  heeded  not, — 

But  human  weakness  falters,  On  threshold, the  bright  presence, 
My  faith  gives  way  to  fears,  The  glad  and  goodly  gleam 

And  love  bathes  duty's  altars  Of  eyes  that  sparkled  pleasance 
In  unrestrained  tears.  Of  love's  young  fateful  dream. 


THE  LOVELY  DEAD. 

As  vanishes  the  sunset  light, 
As  disappear  the  shades  of  night, 

So  vanisheth 

The  mortal  breath 

Of  those  too  fair  for  homes  of  earth, 
Whose  joys  are  of  celestial  birth. 


270  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

How  can  with  grief  the  bosom  swell, 
How  can  dark  sorrow's  saddening  spell 

Enpall  the  heart 

When  friends  depart, 
Whose  lives  in  love  and  sweetness  shine 
With  radiance  pure  and  glow  divine  ! 

The  loved  on  earth — how  brief  their  stay- 
Yet  live  they  still  in  realms  of  day ; 

They  will  not  here 

Again  appear, 

Yet  earth  retains  a  charm,  a  grace, 
From  their  late  presence  on  its  face. 

With  sweeter  food  no  soul  is  fed, 
Than  memory  of  sainted  dead  ! 
An  incense  meet, 
Pure,  fragrant,  sweet, 
The  memory  of  the  dead  doth  rise 
To  join  the  earth  unto  the  skies  ! 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE  IN  THE  CENTURIES. 

THE   EIGHTEENTH — IMMIGRATION. 

Stern  men  of  faith,  strong  will,  of  brawn  and  nerve, 
Sought  granite  hills  that  frowned  on  rock}'  coasts, 
To  build  thereon  a  state  ;  to  fill  with  hosts 

Of  people  who  from  duty  could  not  swerve. 

They  planted  on  each  hill  a  school,  a  spire, 

Felled  forests,  made  new  homes,  vexed  streams  with  dams, 
Built  mills,  raised  kine  and  flocks  of  lambs, 

While  keeping  brightly  live  a  patriotic  fire  ; 
And  looking  to  the  future,  cares  and  joys 

Came  on  with  troops  of  girls  and  boys. 

THE   NINTEENTH — MIGRATION. 

Farms  dot  the  intervales,  herds  climb  the  hills, 
And  comfort,  culture,  come  from  patient  toil ; 
Skill  strives  ;  invention  burns  the  midnight  oil ; 

A  strange  unrest,  a  wild  ambition  thrills 

The  souls  so  resolute  to  do  and  dare, 

To  conquer  continents,  to  build  new  states, 
And  open  to  high  progress  all  the  gates 

That  bar  the  way — while  in  their  native  air, 
And  on  ancestral  hills,  their  brothers  strong 
Fight  care,  win  bread,  love  truth  and  hate  a  wrong. 


WILLIAM  PL  UMER.  271 


THE    TWENTIETH A    PROPHECY. 

The  western  Switzerland — a  refuge  fair 

For  wandering  sons,  tired  denizens  of  towns, 
And  weary  mortals  on  whom  Hygeia  frowns — 

Weds  art  to  nature,  buds  with  beauties  rare ; 

Production  doubles  on  her  well  kept  farms, 
New  arts  arise,  the  hill  lands  teem  with  men 
Who  graze  the  slopes,  to  gardens  turn  the  glen, 

And  heighten  all  of  Nature's  native  charms  ; 
While  virtue  flourishes  and  morals  shine, 
And  graces  mould  the  human  form  divine. 


SHtlitam  pumn:. 


TC|lliam  Plumer  is  a  grandson  of  Governor  William  Plumer  and  a  son  of  William 
I'lrtmer  whose  poems  are  found  in  this  volume.  He  was  born  in  Epping,  Nov.  29, 1823. 
In  1845  he  graduated  at  Harvard  College,  and  at  the  Cambridge  .Law  School  in  1848. 
He  practised  law  in  Boston.  In  1862  he  was  made  Captain  of  the  "Andrew  Sharp 
Shooters."  He  took  part  in  both  battles  of  Fredericksburg,  and  at  Gettysburg; 
was  wounded  in  action,  sent  to  the  hospital,  and  discharged  the  last  of  1863.  He 
has  been  three  or  four  years  in  the  Revenue  Service,  but  is  now  engaged  in  scientific 
pursuits,  in  Lexington,  Mass. 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 

They  tell  me  oft,  in  joyous  tones, 

The  skies  are  clear  and  bright, 
That  nature  smiles  in  loveliness, 

And  beauty  crowns  the  night ; 
That  fields  are  decked  with  violets, 

And  roses  grace  the  lea, 
That  grassy  meads  with  lilies  bloom — 

Yet  all  is  dark  to  me  ; — 

That  starry  gems  are  nightly  seen, 

Set  in  the  silver  waves, 
Where  deep  old  ocean  rolls  along, 

Above  his  coral  caves  ; 
That  nature's  hand  has  painted  bright, 

In  colors  fair  to  see, 
Hope's  radiant  bow  around  the  skies — 

Yet  all  is  dark  to  me. 

But  ah  !  at  this,  I  would  not  sigh, 

Could  I  but  only  see 
My  mother  smile  upon  her  boy, — 

For  all  is  dark  to  me. 
But  soon  around  my  silent  grave, 

The  flowers  will  blossom  bright, 
And  I  shall  be  with  God  above, 

Kissed  by  his  smile  to  light. 


272  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Joijn  <&uincg  Efcams 

J  Q.  A.  Wood,  the  eldest  son  of  Col.  Eliphalet  Wood  of  London  and  a  nephew 
of  Rev.  Henry  Wood,  was  born  at  Chichester,  Feb.  8th,  1815.  His  father  emigrated 
to  Michigan,  with  his  family,  in  the  spring  of  1831,  and  settled  near  the  village  of 
Tecumseh  in  Lenawee  County.  Quincy  was  necessarily  engaged,  in  his  boyhood, 
on  the  farm  during  spring  and  summer,  but  was  sent  with  his  brothers  to  the 
village  school  autumns  and  winters.  Atler  he  and  his  brother  William  had  en 
tered  on  a  preparatory  course  for  a  collegiate  education  at  Tecumseh,  they  were 
sent  back  to  their  native  State  and  completed  their  preparatory  studies  at  New 
London,  whence  they  were  admitted  to  the  Freshman  class  in  Dartmouth  College 
in  1839.  Here  they  remained  until  the  close  of  their  Junior  year,  when  they  en 
tered  Union  College,  N.  Y.,  where  they  graduated  in  1843.  Here  the  brothers  sep 
arated,  William  returning  to  Tecumsen,  where  he  adopted  law  as  a  profession,  and 
Quincy  to  his  native  State  where  he  became  a  law  student  in  the  office  of  Hon. 
Leonard  Wilcox  of  Orford,  but  subsequently  pursued  his  legal  studies  in  the  of 
fice  of  Pierce  &  Fowler  at  Concord,  where  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1846.  The 
brothers  married  sisters,  Quincy,  Emily  Maria,  and  William  Julia  A.  A.,  daughters 
of  Mr.  Ezekiel  Sargent  of  .New  London.  The  poems  of  the  latter  lady  are  repre 
sented  in  this  work.  Soon  after  his  marriage,  Quincy  returned  to  Michigan  and 
settled  down  to  his  profession  in  the  city  of  Ann  Arbor,  where  his  accomplished 
wife  was  Principal  of  a  Young  Ladies'  Academy  for  eight  years.  While  on  a  visit 
to  her  relatives  in  New  Hampshire  she  died  suddenly  in  1854  and  has  her  grave 
among  her  native  hills  which  she  loved  so  well. 

The  poet  has  consecrated  her  memory  in  the  stanzas  entitled,  To  Her  who  sits  in 
soft  attire.  Alter  the  death  of  Mrs.  Wood,  her  husband  went  to  Minnesota  and  re 
joined  his  brother  William,  who  had  been  appointed  by  President  Pierce,  U.  S. 
Land  Keceiver  at  Sank  Rapids.  Subsequently  he  visited  Southwestern  Kentucky, 
where  another  brother,  Dr.  A.  C.  Wood  had  long  resided,  at  the  city  of  Owensboro. 
Here  he  contracted  a  second  marriage  with  Mrs.  Mary  E.  Johnson,  an  accomplish 
ed  lady  of  Louisville.  His  wife  brought  to  him  a  handsome  estate  and  he  assumed 
the  responsibilities  of  a  southern  planter.  When  the  clouds  of  the  Rebellion  lx;gan 
to  darken  the  southern  sky  and  the  "peculiar  institution"  emperilled,  he  sold  the 
plantation  and  retired  with  his  family  into  the  city  of  Owensboro.  Here  he 
purchased  an  interest  in  and  edited  the  Southern  Kentucky  Shield  until  compelled 
to  yield  to  the  violence  of  the  times  and  discontinue  his  paper.  Alter  the  close  ot 
the  war,  he  returned  to  Sauk  Rapids,  where  he  now  resides  in  the  practice  of  big 
profession,  and  where  his  brother  William  died  In  1870. 


INVOCATION  TO  SPRING. 

This  Invocation  to  Spring  was  suggested  by  the  following  passages  contained  In 
a  letter  from  a  lady  friend  to  the  author.  They  will  explain  what  might  other 
wise  appear  incongruous  in  the  sonnet. 

She  writes :  Our  gifted  and  eccentric  young  friend  Everett  is  no  more.  He  died 
nt  the  residence  of  his  father  in  Newport  onthe'2<5thof  March  a  little  after  midnight. 
A  death  so  serene  and  mournfully  beautiful,  so  to  speak,  was,  perhaps  never  be 
fore  witnessed.  His  youth,  his  ambition  to  achieve  something  noble  in  learning,  his 
peculiar  but  fascinating  notions  of  existence  and  his  early  death  have  deeply  impres 
sed  us  all.  He  longed  for  the  return  of  spring,  and  fully  believed  in  the  omnipotence 
of  its  healing  gifts  to  restore  his  wasted  energies,  and  sometimes  almost  petulantly 
chided  its  delay.  His  religious  views— if  religious  they  can  be  called— were  pan 
theistic,  strongly  infected  with  the  mythology  of  the  ancients,  over  which  he  pored 
until  this  singular  study  became  a  passion.  Recalling  the  Roman  custom  just 
before  he  expired,  the  dying  student  desired  his  sister  to  receive  his  parting  breath. 
His  last  words  words  "Effie,  when  1  am  gone,  Spring  will  return  with  its  violets, 
I  shall  live  in  them." 

0,  blue-eyed  Spring !  why,  why  this  long  delay  ? 
J  droop,  I  languish  for  thy  balmy  breath, 

To  pale  despair  and  fell  disease  a  prey, 

I  sink  untimely  to  the  shades  of  death  ! 
What  fairer  orb  detains  thee  to  m}r  wrong? 

What  fonder  souls  engage  thy  smiling  charms? 

1,  too,  did  once  beguile  thee  with  my  song, 
In  a  green  valley,  circled  in  thine  arms. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  WOOD.  273 

Daily  for  thee  I  pine,  for  thee  expire, 

Casting  my  eyes  o'er  Lethe's  voiceless  sea, 

And  backward  with  unutterable  desire 
Of  longing  hope,  that  thou  wilt  succor  me. 

O,  for  thy  dropping  dews  and  soft  winged  sighs, 
To  bathe  my  wasted  cheek  and  sleepless  eyes. 

Come  breathe  upon  me  with  thy  rosy  mouth, 

Sweet  with  the  airs  and  odors  of  Brazil, 
Of  flowery  isles  far  oceaned  in  the  South 

And  me  from  tortures  snatch  that  wound  and  kill, 
Or  never  more  for  me  the  budding  spray 

May  teach  its  tender  verdure  to  unfold, 
As,  when  within  thy  circling  arms  I  lay, 

And  thee  of  pale  Endymion's  passion  told, 
O  that  thou  wouldst  again  upon  me  look 

And  kiss  me  into  slumber — once  again 
On  grassy  mount  beside  the  tuneful  brook, 

Bathe  me  in  sunbeams  !  But  I  sue  in  vain. 
E'en,  in  my  sight  beyond  the  rifted  cloud, 
Fate  with  a  flying  shuttle,  weaves  my  shroud  ! 

Sweet  truant  of  the  skies  !  ne'er  shalt  thou  more 

From  light  dreams  call  me  to  renewed  delight ; 
Charon  awaits  with  torch  and  leaden  oar, 

My  soul  to  pilot  to  the  caves  of  night. 
As  fed  the  vultures  on  the  culprit  bound, 

Whom  angry  Jove  to  living  death  decreed, 
With  tortures  new,  afresh  to  rend  the  wound, 

So,  on  my  life,  doth  pale  consumption  feed ! 
Swift  be  thy  wing,  or  ever  thou  shalt  come, 

With  downy  gales  and  skyey  draperies, 
These  lips  which  now  beseech  thee  shall  be  dumb, 

And  all  lack-lustered  these  sad  longing  eyes  ; 
Ah,  then  in  vain  above  my  narrow  mound, 
Wilt  thou  thyself  with  useless  sorrow  wound. 

One  little  boon  I  ask,  one  fond  request, 

Which  thou,  gay  loiterer,  wilt  not  me  deny, 
When  thou  returnest  and  findest  me  the  guest 

Of  death  and  hapless  shades  from  life  that  fly ; 
It  is  that  in  the  seasons'  annual  round, 

When  thou  dost  on  thine  orient  car  appear, 
In  floral  pomp,  thy  zone  with  garlands  bound, 

Thou'lt,  pitying,  turn  aside  and  drop  a  tear 
O'er  me,  untimely  lost — each  pearl  of  grief 

Transformed  to  breathing  violets  on  my  tomb  ; 


274  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

So  shalt  thou,  in  their  sacred  flower  and  leaf, 
Recall  my  hapless  shade  and  mortal  bloom. 
I  ask  but  this.     My  former  visions  flee, 
And  I  escape  from  life  and,  O,  from  thee. 


FATHER'S  GROWING  OLD,  JOHN. 

Father's  growing  old,  John,  his  eyes  are  getting  dim, 
And  years  have  on  his  shoulders  laid  a  heavy  weight  for  him  ; 
But  you  and  I  are  young  and  hale,  and  each  a  stalwart  man, 
And  we  must  make  his  load  as  light  and  easy  as  we  can. 

He  used  to  take  the  brunt,  John,  at  cradle  and  the  plough, 
And  earned  our  porridge  by  the  sweat  that  trickled  from  his  brow  ; 
Yet  never  heard  we  him  complain,  whate'er  his  toil  might  be, 
Nor  wanted  e'er  a  welcome  seat  upon  his  solid  knee. 

But  when  our  boy-strength  came,  John,  and  sturdy  grew  each 

limb, 

He  brought  us  to  the  yellow  field,  to  share  the  toil  with  him  ; 
But  he  went  foremost  in  the  swath,  tossing  aside  the  grain, 
Strong  as  the  plough  that  heaves  the  soil,  or  ship  that  cleaves 

the  main. 

Now  we  must  lead  the  van,  John,  through  weather  foul  and  fair, 
And  let  the  old  man  read  and  doze,  and  tilt  his  easy  chair ; 
And  he'll  not  mind  it,  John,  you  know,  at  eve,  to  tell  us  o'er 
Those  brave  old  tales  of  British  times,  of  grandsire  and  the  war. 

I  heard  you  speak  of  mother,  John  ;  'tis  gospel  what  }-ou  say, 
That  caring  for  the  like  of  us,  has  turned  her  head  so  gray  ; 
Yet,  John,  I  do  remember  well,  when  neighbors  called  her  vain, 
And  when  her  hair  was  long  and  like  a  gleaming  sheaf  of  grain. 

Her  lips  were  cherry  red,  John,  her  cheek  was  round  and  fair, 
And  like  a  ripened  peach  it  swelled  against  her  wavy  hair  ; 
Her  step  fell  lightly  as  the  leaf  from  off  the  summer  tree, 
And  all  day  busy  at  her  wheel,  she  sang  to  you  and  me. 

She  had  a  buxom  arm,  John,  that  wielded  well  the  rod, 
Whene'er  with  willful  step  our  feet  the  path  forbidden  trod  ; 
But  to  the  heaven  of  her  eyes  we  never  looked  in  vain, 
And  ever  to  our  yielding  cry  her  tears  dropped  down  like  rain  ! 

But  that  is  long  agone,  John,  and  we  are  what  we  are, 
And  little  heed  we  day  by  day,  her  fading  cheek  and  hair ; 
Ah,  -when  within  her  faithful  breast,  the  tides  no  longer  stir, 
'Tis  then,  John,  that  we  most  shall  feel,  we  had  no  friend  like  her. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  WOOD.  275 

Sure  there  can  be  no  harm,  John,  thus  speaking  softly  o'er 
The  blesse'd  names  of  those,  ere  long,  shall  welcome  us  no  more  ; 
Nay  !  hide  it  not — for  why  should'st  thou  an  honest  tear  disown  ? 
Thy  heart  one  day  will  lighter  be,  remembering  it  has  flown. 

Yes,  father's  growing  old,  John,  his  eyes  are  getting  dim, 
And  mother's  treading  softly  down  the  dim  descent  with  him  ; 
But  j-ou  and  I  are  young  and  hale,  and  each  a  stalwart  man, 
And  we  must  make  their  path  as  smooth  and  level  as  we  can. 


TO  HER  WHO  SITS  IN  SOFT  ATTIRE. 

Mine  own  beloved  in  blest  abodes. 

Canst  thou  retrace  thine  earthward  way  ? 
Or,  canst  thou  'midst  the  heavenl}-  od°° 

Discern  my  poor,  heart-broken  my  : 
If  angels  feel  for  mortal  love, 

And  grieve  there  o'er  its  ruined  shrine, 
Then  in  those  blissful  seats  above, 

How  tender  is  thy  grief  for  mine  ! 

Where  dost  thou  trail  thy  robes  of  light? 

By  what  far  orb's  celestial  tide  ? 
O,  for  a  vision  of  the  night, 

To  show  me  where  thou  dost  abide  ! 
A  dream,  a  vision  of  the  night — 

A  chariot  with  its  steeds  oi  fire 
To  waft  me  to  that  heavenly  hight, 

Where  thou  dost  sit  in  soft  attire. 

I  have  not  thriven  since  the  day, 

That  thou  wast  taken  from  my  side  ; 
Have  wandered  from  the  floweiy  way, 

We  travelled  when  thou  wast  my  guide. 
As,  without  thee,  like  pilgrim  blind, 

Or  traveller  lost,  the  path  I  tread, 
Life's  golden  vistas  tade  behind, 

And  brooding  clouds  before  me  spread. 

Uncertain,  lonely,  hopeless  now, 

I  miss  thy  sympathy,  thy  song, 
Thy  hand  to  smooth  my  aching  brow, 

Thy  little  strength,  that  seemed  so  strong ! 
How  beautiful  thou  wast !  the  stars 

Less  tender  looked  from  sinless  skies 
On  Eve,  through  Eden's  golden  bars, 

Than  I  on  thee  with  love's  proud  eyes. 


276  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

If  I,  in  passing  dream  have  thought 

To  heal  the  woes  th}r  parting  made, 
The  vain  assay  was  dearly  bought, 

And  denser  round  me  grew  the  shade  ! 
That  shade  may  never  lifted  be, 

From  off  my  soul's  serene  desire, 
Till  freed,  m}-  soul  may  fly  to  thee, 

Where  thou  dost  sit  in  soft  attire. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Hail,  land  of  the  Mountain  Dominion ! 

Uplifting  thy  crest  to  the  day, 
Where  the  eagle  is  bathing  his  pinion 

In  clouds  that  are  rolling  away. 
O,  say,  from  the  Pilgrim  descended 

Who  trampled  on  Albion's  crown, 
Shall  we,  by  thy  cataracts  splendid, 

Refuse  thee  a  wreath  of  renown — 
A  wreath  of  renown  from  thy  evergreen  bough, 
Entwined  with  the  oak  that  adorneth  thy  brow  ? 

What  though,  on  the  mountains  that  bore  us, 

The  fern  in  her  loneliness  waves  ? 
Our  forefathers  tilled  them  before  us, 

And  here  will  we  dwell  b}'  their  graves ; 
And  beloved  b}7  thy  pure-hearted  daughters, 

Ever  true  to  the  brave  and  the  free, 
We'll  drink  of  the  gush  of  thy  waters, 

That  leap  in  the  sun  to  the  sea. 
Huzza  to  the  rocks  and  glens  of  the  north ! 
Huzza  to  the  torrents  that  herald  them  forth  ! 

Ye  hills,  where  the  tempest  hath  billowed, 

O,  glance  to  the  vales  of  the  sun  ! 
Where  hearts,  on  iniquity  pillowed, 

Melt  not  o'er  the  deeds  they  have  done  ! 
Where  Slavery's  merciless  minion, 

Is  scourging  the  slave  with  his  rod, 
While  Liberty  foldeth  her  pinion, 

And  mournfully  murmurs  to  God  ; 

Where  the  dew  on  the  flower,  and  the  mist  on  the  flood, 
With  voices  that  startle,  cry,  "Blood  !  brother,  blood  !" 

Thank  God,  that  the  scourge  and  the  fetter 

Have  never  dishonored  thy  flag ! 
And,  but  for  thy  shame  that  the  debtor 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  WOOD.  277 

Is  dragged  from  his  home  on  the  crag, 
Thy  fearless  and  puritan  spirit 

Might  speak  with  a  cry  of  disdain, 
To  the  valleys  whose  children  inherit 
The  slave  in  his  collar  and  chain  ! 
Let  the  woes  of  the  bondman  dissolve  thee  no  more, 
Till  thy  bolts  are  withdrawn  on  the  penniless  poor. 

Peace  to  us  is  evermore  singing 

Her  songs  on  thy  mountains  of  dew, 
While  still  at  our  altars  are  swinging 

The  swords  that  our  forefathers  drew. 
But  O,  may  we  never  unsheath  them 

Again  where  the  carnage  awaits, 
But  to  our  descendants  bequeath  them 

To  hang  upon  Liberty's  gates, 
Encircled  with  garlands,  as  blades  that  were  drawn 
By  the  hosts  of  the  Lord,  that  have  conquered  and  gone. 

All  hail  to  thee,  Mountain  Dominion  ! 

Whose  flag  on  the  cloud  is  unrolled, 
Where  the  eagle  is  straining  his  pinion, 

And  dipping  his  plumage  in  gold. 
We  ask  for  no  hearts  that  are  truer, 

No  spirits  more  gifted  than  thine, 
No  skies  that  are  warmer  or  bluer, 

Than  dawn  on  thy  hemlock  and  pine, 
Ever  pure  are  the  breezes  that  herald  thee  forth, 
Green  land  of  my  father !  thou  Rock  of  the  North ! 


THE  BLIND  MAN'S  EVENING  HYMN. 

Set  is  the  sun  to  rise   no  more, 

That  blazed  on  Judah's  sacred  sea, 

And  stood  in  heavenly  splendor  o'er 
The  Virgin-born  of  Galilee. 

And  cold  and  dark  is  Zion's  bower, 
And  wasted  is  her  purple  vine  ; 

And  gone  the  Hand  whose   healing  power    , 
Could  re-illume  a  night  like  mine. 

Where'er  I  turn  my  sightless  eyes, 
No  meads  expand,  no  valleys  bloom ; 

No  starry  splendor  lights  the  skies, 
No  planets  travel  through  the  gloom. 


278  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

No  more  for  me,  in  waves  of  light, 

Shall  evening  blush  nor  morning  break  : 

But  ever  on  unending  night 

These  clouded  eyes  of  mine  must  wake. 

The  hours  are  brightest  when  I  sleep, 
For  in  my  dreams  I  see  the  day  ; 

But  when  I  wake,  in  shadows  deep, 
The  dear  delusion  fades  away. 

But  He  who  healed  the  withered  eye, 
And  gave  it  light  on  Zion  Hill — 

In  every  breeze  that  whispers  by, 
I  hear  his  passing  footsteps  still : 

I  hear  them  in  the  flowing  stream, 

And  in  the  fragrance-breathing  bough ; 

At  noon,  or  when  night's  dewy  beam 
Is  bathing  nature's  sleeping  brow. 

I  hear  them  in  the  vernal  shower, 
And  in  the  tempest's  far  retreat, 

Behind  the  clouds  that  round  me  lower, 
I  hear  the  Saviour's  passing  feet ! 

Dear  Lord  !  impatient,  when  for  me, 
Death  waves  his  downy  sable  plume, 

Then  I,  released  shall  come  to  thee, 
And  thou  these  eyes  wilt  re-illume. 


Julia 


SSJooir. 


Mra.  J.  A.  A.  Wood  is  a  native  of  New  London.  She  was  thoroughly  educated  at 
the  academy  in  that  town  and  in  the  Charlestown  (Mass.)  Seminary.  In  184!)  she 
was  married  to  William  Henry  Wood,  a  lawyer,  and  brother  of  J.  Q.  A.  Wood. 
For  two  years  thev  resided  in  Greensbury,  Ky.,  when  they  removed  to  Sauk  Rapids 
Minn.,  where  Mr.  Wood  was  appointed  U.  S.  Receiver  of  Public  Moneys.  Here  he 
established  u  weekly  newspaper,  the  Sauk  Kapids  New  Era,  his  wife  editing  the 
literary  department.  She  published  In  this  paper  a  series  of  sketches,  which  were 
ivad  with  avidity,  entitled,  "Life  in  the  Woods."  Her  first  contribution  in  prose, 
from  her  new  home  in  Minnesota,  appeared  in  Arthur's  Home.  Gazette,  undi'r  the 
head  of  "Letters  from  the  far  West.  '  She  has  also  been  author  of  several  books. 
.iinoiit!:  which  may  be  mentioned  :  "The  heart  of  Myrrha  Lake,  or  into  the  Light  of 
Catholicity;"  "B'rown  House  of  Duffield;"  "Story  of  Annette;"  and  "Basil  and 
ISeatrice."  She  has  written  many  poems  of  much  beauty  and  merit,  and,  in  the 
"Poets  and  Poetry  of  Minnesota,"  a  book  published  in  1864,  she  occupies  a  promi 
nent  place.  Her  husband  died  in  1870,  and  she  has  become,  "in  all  sincerity  and 
honesty  of  heart,  a  convert  to  the  Roman  Catholic  Church."  . 


LEGEND  OF  THE  WILLOW. 

Asked  May  the  child,  with  eye  aglow, 

As,  thoughtful,  she  the  tree  surveyed, 
Why  doth  the  willow  droop  so  low, 


JULIA  A.  A.  WOOD.  279 

As  if  it  were  with  sorrow  weighed, 
As  if  some  secret,  heavy  woe 
Upon  its  inmost  heart  were  laid  ? 

'Tis  said  that  once  this  tree,  my  child, 

Its  slender  branches  upward  threw 
Like  other  trees  to  catch  the  mild, 

Sweet  breath  of  morn,  and  twilight  dew, 
But  that  there  came  a  storm  so  wild 

It  rent  with  grief  the  willow  through. 

Ere  Jesus  unto  Calvary  went, 

Mocked  and  derided  by  the  throng, 
His  captors,  wickedly  intent 

To  do  our  Lord  the  utmost  wrong, 
Scourged  Him  until  the  ground  was  sprent 

With  blood  that  followed  rod  and  thong. 

These  rods,  'tis  said,  were  braided  boughs 

Torn  from  the  willow's  tender  side, 
And  when  all  nature  was  convulsed, 

She  drooped  so  low  her  shame  to  hide  ; 
She  could  not  bear  that  she  had  helped 

To  slay  our  Lord,  the  crucified ! 

And  so  through  all  the  lapsing  years, 

Her  sorrowing  form  doth  ne'er  uprise 
To  embrace  the  balmy  atmosphere, 

Or  breathe  the  blessings  of  the  skies, 
While  ever  the  repentant  tears 

Flow  downward  as  from  drooping  eyes. 

Do  thou  a  lesson  learn,  my  child, 

From  this  sad  story  of  the  tree — 
Grieve  ever  that  the  undefiled 

Was  slain  by  sinners,  such  as  thee  ; 
Strive  to  be  patient,  meek  and  mild, 

And  full  of  sweet  humility. 


LINES  FOR  ASH  WEDNESDAY. 

The  holy  season  now  hath  come, 
The  time  for  prayer  and  fast, 

O  may  I  spend  it  dearest  Lord, 
As  though  it  were  my  last. 

For  forty  days  our  Model  kept 
His  fast  in  desert  lone  ; 


280  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Upon  the  dewy  ground  he  slept, 
His  pillow  but  a  stone. 

"As  I  have  done,  do  ye,"  he  said 
When  near  his  Passion  came : 

We  love  thy  word,  O  dearest  Lord 
All  we  who  bear  thy  name. 

On  this  most  solemn  church-day  morn 
We  kneel  with  love  and  trust 

And  on  our  brows  the  sign  receive 
That  we  are  of  the  dust. 

Upon  the  brow  a  double  sign  ; 

The  ashes  of  decay ; 
In  form  of  cross  to  signify 

We  rise  to  endless  day. 

Dear  Lord,  before  thine  altar  now 

I  offer  heart  and  soul ; 
Imprint  on  these,  as  on  my-  brow, 

The  seal  of  thy  control. 

And  never  may  my  erring  feet 
Far  from  thy  dear  cross  stra}7, 

But  may  I  with  a  love  complete 
Thy  sweet  behests  obe}'. 


ittarb  25.  Ulatr. 


Miss  Blair  was  born  in  Holderness,  Jan.  15, 1824.  Her  father,  the  late  Hon.  Wai 
ter  Blair,  removed  to  Plymouth  when  she  was  a  child,  and  there  she  received 
her  early  education.  The  greater  part  of  her  life  has  been  spent  in  teaching ;  at 
first  in  the  common  and  high  schools  of  her  native  state,  and  later,  in  Massachu 
setts,  at  Bradford  Academy,  Abbott  Academy,  Andover,  Wheaton  Semiuarv.  Nor 
ton,  and  for  the  last  seventeen  years  in  a  private  school  for  young  ladies  In  Boston. 
Since  her  return  from  Europe  in  1874,  she  has  given  lectures  on  the  History  of 
Art  in  Wellesley  College  and  other  schools. 


FELLOWSHIP  IN   SUFFERING. 

'That  I  may  know  Him  and  the  fellowship  of  His  sufferings."— Phil.  3 : 10. 

Humbly,  while  my  soul  doth  prove 
Sweetest  joys  of  pardoning  love, 
Still,  my  Saviour,  doth  it  yearn 
Love's  deep  mystery  to  learn ; 
In  the  shadow  of  thy  cross 
Counting  earthly  gain  but  loss, 
Breathing  still  its  fervent  plea 
For  a  closer  life  with  thee, 
By  that  high  and  holy  thing 
Fellowship  in  suffering. 


MAEY  E.  BLAIE.  281 


O  m}-  Lord,  the  Crucified, 
Who  for  love  of  me  hast  died, 
Mould  me  by  thy  living  breath 
To  the  likeness  of  thy  death. 
While  the  thorns  thy  brow  entwine, 
Let  no  flower-wreath  rest  on  mine. 
In  thy  hands  the  cruel  nail, 
Blood-sweat  on  thy  forehead  pale, 
Clasp  me  to  thy  wounded  side, 
O  my  Lord,  the  Crucified. 

Hands  love-clasped  through  charmed  hours, 

Feet  that  press  the  bruised  flowers, 

Is  there  nought  for  you  to  dare 

That  ye  may  His  signet  wear  ? 

In  this  easy,  painless  life, 

Free  from  struggle,  care,  and  strife, 

Ever  on  my  doubting  breast 

Lies  the  shadow  of  unrest ; 

This  no  path  that  Jesus  trod  ; 

Can  the  smooth  way  lead  to  God  ? 

But  when  chastening  stripes  descend, 
Welcoming  as  friend  doth  friend, 
Thy  dear  tokens,  Lord,  I  know, 
And  to  thee  unerring  go. 
Blessed  tears  flow  warm  and  free, 
Thou  dost  love  me,  even  me  ; 
Pomp  and  ease  and  praise  of  men, 
All  are  loathed  and  scorned  then, 
Since  my  Lord,  my  Love,  hath  died 
Mocked  and  scourged  and  crucified. 

By  the  agony  and  pain 
Of  the  torture-stricken  brain, 
B}r  the  riches  of  thy  love, 
Let  not  suffering  barren  prove, 
Pledge  and  emblem  'twould  remain 
Of  the  dark  and  sullen  pain, 
Where  nor  love,  nor  good,  cloth  live, 
And  the  blessed  word,  Forgive 
Comes  not,  with  its  subtle  art, 
Softening,  healing  any  heart. 

In  the  little  islet,  time, 
Of  eternity  sublime, 
Standing  on  the  sloping  brink, 
Let  me  of  thy  chalice  driiik, 


282  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Be  baptized  with  thy  baptism, 
And  be  crowned  with  thy  love-chrism ; 
Slain  with  thee  in  darkest  hour, 
Feel  thy  resurrection's  power, 
Till  where  thou  art,  I  may  be, 
Perfected,  dear  Lord,  with  thee. 


LOVE  IS  DEAD. 

Soul  of  mine  that  walked  in  glory, 

Garlanded  with  light  and  song, 
Mused  thou  but  one  sad  story, 

Manifold  in  pain  and  wrong? 
In  the  dull,  dead  universe, 
Hearing  only  the  great  curse, 

Love,  Love  is  dead. 

Sun,  the  Titan  world-caressing, 

Thy  great  living  heart  of  love 
Throbs  no  more  with  joy  and  blessing 

In  thy  raj'less  courts  above, 
And  the  light,  thy  gushing  voice, 
Sings  not  now,  Rejoice,  rejoice, 

Since  Love  is  dead. 

Thou,  the  vates,  the  inspirer, 
Myriad-crowned  and  regal  Night, 

Tuning  th}r  immortal  lyre, 

Thy  deep  soul  hath  felt  the  blight, 

And  thy  many  voices  wail, 

And  thy  starry  watch-fires  fail, 

Love,  Love  is  dead. 

Thou,  dear  Earth,  the  joyful  mother, 

Motherly,  that  lovedst  all, 
Is  there  none,  or  son  or  brother, 

O'er  thy  corse  to  spread  the  pall  ? 
Oh  the  cloud  on  all  things  fair, 
Death  and  silence  everywhere, 

Now  Love  is  dead. 

Ye  that  from  the  great  earth-altar, 

Breathe  sweet  incense,  bright-robed  flowers, 
Minstrel  winds  that  may  not  falter, 

Harping  to  the  eternal  hours, 
By  your  soul  of  sweetness  fled, 
Know  ye  with  a  shudder  dread 

That  Love  is  dead. 


MARY  E.  BLAIR.  283 


Streams  that  smiled  and  danced  before  us, 

Hoary  ocean,  singing  rill, 
Yours  the  surging  anthem-chorus 

That  all  time  and  space  doth  fill  : 
Now  ye  all  move  dark  and  slow 
To  one  mighty  dirge  of  woe, 

Love,  Love  is  dead. 

Friends,  sweet  friends,  ah  vain  ideal, 
Since  ye  are  not,  and  but  seem, 

Love  alone  is  true  and  real ; 
All  things  else  are  but  a  dream. 

In  my  heart  the  yew  tr^es  wave, 

And  the  flowers  smell  of  the  grave, 

Sweet  Love  is  dead. 

Turn  not  thus  on  me  your  faces, 
Pictures  are  they  and  no  more  ; 

Gone  are  all  your  tender  graces, 
Ye  that  loved  in  days  of  yore, 

What  are  we  but  phantoms  dread 

When  our  being's  soul  is  fled, 

And  Love  is  dead  ? 

How  the  cold  rain  droppetli  ever 

On  the  dull  eternal  shore  : 
By  the  black  and  sullen  river, 

We  are  orphans  ever  more. 
In  a  world  whence  Love  hath  fled, 
God  himself  is  gone  or  dead. 

Great  Love  is  dead. 

Then  I  saw  an  angel  vision, 

Where  I  sat  within  the  tomb, 
Sweetest  light  and  joy  elj'sian 

Suddenly  did  bud  and  bloom. 
"Mary,"  whom  I  wept  as  dead, 
Tenderly  He  spake  and  said, 

Not  Love  is  dead. 

When  I  knew  him,  the  Arisen, 

Love  immortal,  Love  divine, 
The  dark  walls  of  the  earth-prison, 

Planet-like,  did  sing  and  shine, 
And  the  dreary  Hades  bloomed 
Glory-crowned  and  Love  illumed  ; 

Not  dead,  not  dead. 


284  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


dfamue  IE.  Jester. 


Miss  Foster  was  born  in  Portsmouth  in  1824.  Her  father,  Robert  Foster,  was  ed 
itor  and  publisher  of  the  Christian  Herald.  Her  first  poem  was  written  at  the  ugt1 
of  twelve  years,  lu  1858,  a  collection  of  her  poems  was  published  under  the  title 
of  "Pebbles  of  Poetry."  She  has  travelled  in  Europe.  Her  present  residence  is 
in  Boston. 


THE  POET'S  GRAVE. 

Sweet  Spring  approached  with  fair}*  feet, 
And  gladsome  smiles  she  wore  ; 

But  why  comes  not  her  poet  forth 
To  greet  her  as  of  }Tore? 

She  sought  him  in  the  fields  land  groves, 

Along  the  murmuring  rills  ; 
And  sent  her  birds  with  sweetest  songs 

To  lure  him  to  the  hills  ; 

Then  strewed  around  her  fairest  flowers, 

And  bid  the  perfumed  breeze 
Awake  sweet  melody  for  him 

In  all  the  forest  trees. 

The  winding  brooks  ran  here  and  there, 

In  ever}7  calm  retreat, 
To  see  if  they  a  trace  could  find 

Of  their  lost  poet's  feet. 

At  length  a  wandering  zeph}T  caught 

The  loved,  familiar  sound 
Of  music,  hovering  just  above 

A  sweet,  low,  grassy  mound. 

Its  tones  were  so  refined  and  pure, 
That  mortals  scarce  might  hear ; 

And  told,  that,  with  the  poet  now, 
'Twas  spring-time  all  the  year. 

Then  gentle  Spring,  with  showers  of  tears, 
The  sweet,  low  mound  did  lave ; 

And  dear  forget-me-nots  sprang  up 
All  o'er  the  poet's  grave. 


Hent. 

Geo.  F.  Kent,  a  young  man  of  rich  pVomise,  and  youngest  son  of  George  Kent,  was 
born  at  Concord,  February  4, 1824.  He  was  fitted  for  College,  and  passed  two  years 
at  Dartmouth,  when  he  left  for  a  more  active  life,  and  spent  four  or  five  years  in  :i 
bookstore  in  New  York  City,  and  in  Bo.-ton  in  mercantile  business.  Being  unmar 
ried,  and  possessed  of  a  spirit  of  adventure,  he  was  one  of  the  early  pioneers  to 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  KENT.          285 

California  in  1849,  where  he  continued  in  the  mining  region,  with  varying  fortune, 
till  1858.  His  return  home  in  the  Spring  of  that  year  was  daily  expected,  when  tlie 
sad  news  came  of  his  death,  in  February,  at  Rich  Bar,'on  Feather  Kiver.  Mr.  Kent's 
writings,  in  prose  and  poetry,  were  somewhat  numerous  for  the  productions  of  s.o 
young  a  man — were  of  much  merit  and  promise,  and,  when  not  written  for  the 
privacy  of  kindred  and  friends,  were  mostly  for  newspapers,  and  the  "Knicker 
bocker  "  magazine. 


TO  A  CALIFORNIA  PINE, 

SUPPOSED    TO    BE    THREE    HUNDRED    FEET   HIGH. 

Who  that  has  gazed  upon  thy  verdure  bright 
Would  fancy  thou  wert  old,  and  that  thy  dress 
Of  purest  green  has  been  through  centuries 
Unchanged  in  storm  or  sunshine — save  as  light 
And  shade,  tempest  and  calm,  might  vary  it? 
Thy  heart  is  sound — thy  limbs  and  bark  no  less  ; 
And  yet,  for  years  I  hardly  dare  to  guess, 
Thou  hast  been  growing  to  this  dizzy  height ! 
Hast  thou  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth  ? 
Or  is  it  as  we  sometimes  see  in  life, 
Where  men  have  kept  their  purity  and  truth  ? — 
Years  pass,  days  visit  them  with  sorrow  rife — 
But  still  their  hearts  keep  young,  and  they  can  stand, 
In  age,  the  firmest,  noblest  of  the  land. 


TO  A  LOCOMOTIVE  ENGINE. 

Swift  treader  of  the  path  man  marketh  out, — 
Cramped  giant,  on  whose  mighty  limbs  is  thrown 
A  power  far  more  relentless  than  thine  own, 
Thou  art  most  like  thy  master  ! — though  without 
His  wondrous  strength  a  giant  will  to  flout ; 
Yet  art  thou  like  him,  when  he  stands  alone 
Where  the  vast  sea  of  life  makes  ceaseless  moan, 
And  hears  the  billows  to  each  other  shout. 
Within  thy  iron  breast  there  lurks  a  breath, 
Quiet,  but  dreadful  as  the  spirit-power 
Which  guides  man's  passions  in  an  evil  hour, 
And  only  yields  its  influence  to  Death  : 
Like  him,  now  slave,  then  tyrant ;  t\\y  control 
Is  bounded  by  an  over-mastering  soul. 


SONNET  TO  SPRING. 

The  Earth  has  long  been  sleeping,  and  her  dreams 
Have  been  most  wild  and  fearful,  such  as  make 
The  boldest  tremble — visions  that  would  shake 


286  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Firm  iron  nerves !  with  dreadful  shrieks  and  screams 

The  winter  wind  has  haunted  lakes  and  streams  ; 

But  now  all  nature  seems  again  awake. 

The  clouds  look  softer,  and  begin  to  take 

New  forms  of  beauty  in  the  morning  beams 

Of  the  warm  sun.     The  first  sound  that  the  Earth 

Heard  on  awaking  was  a  bird's  small  voice, 

Like  childhood's  prattle  in  a  mother's  ear, 

So  soft,  so  tremulous,  and  yet  so  clear 

That  in  her  inmost  heart  she  did  rejoice 

O'er  all  blithe  things  to  which  she'd  given  birth. 


RAIN  IN  APRIL. 

The  gentle  murmur  of  the  dripping  rain 
Comes  like  a  strain  of  music  to  m}'  ear ; 

It  is  the  blithest  time  of  all  the  year 
To  me,  this  early  spring-time,  when  again 
The  barren  trees,  and  the  long  covered  plain 
Begin  to  gather  beauties  far  and  near, 
Culling  fresh  flowers  to  strew  upon  the  bier 
Of  the  departed  winter.     Not  in  vain 
These  buds  and  blossoms  of  the  spring  come  forth  ; 
Like  the  first  fruits  of  genius  the}'  give  sign 
Of  a  large  hoard  of  wealth  and  hidden  worth 
That,  like  rich  jewels  buried  in  a  mine, 
Is  lock'd  within  the  summer's  treasmy. 
All  shrouded  from  the  gaze  of  careless  eye. 


A  BROTHER'S  PLEA. 

0  brother,  let  us  seek  that  roof 
Where,  when  we  were  two  simple  boys, 

"We  kept  all  future  fear  aloof 

And  minded  nought  but  present  joys ; 
It  stands  upon  the  hill-side  yet, 

And  bids  us,  with  its  shelter  find 
A  refuge  where  we  ma}*  forget 

Unloving  tones  and  looks  unkind, 

1  cannot  now  return  alone, — 

For,  seared  as  is  my  aching  heart, 
It  unto  yours  so  close  has  grown 

That  'twould  be  almost  death  to  part. 
The  cord  which  k'nit  us  once  was  free, 

And,  trusting  in  its  seeming  length, 


GEOECrE  FEEDEEICK  KENT.  287 

We  frolicked  on  right  joyously, 

Unmindful  of  its  silken  strength ; 
But  as  the  spider  draws  his  thread 

To  his  own  breast  when  danger's  nigh, 
So  we,  our  early  safeguards  fled, 

Draw  closer  to  each  heart  that  tie. 

My  brother,  think  of  the  old  time ! 

And  let  your  memory  wake  again 
Its  blissful  hours,  like  a  sweet  chime 

Of  distant  bells  :  'tis  not  in  vain 
Thus  to  recall  the  happy  past 

And  bring  its  dear  scenes  back  to  view, — 
Indeed  they  were  too  fair  to  last, 

Yet  while  the}*  lived  they  were  most  true, — 
And  truth  is  such  a  stranger  now 

We  may  not  scorn  her  simplest  guise  ; 
Her  earliest  pleadings,  O  allow, 

And  look  again  through  those  clear  eyes ! 
The  world,  I  know,  can  never  wean 

Your  spirit  from  its  love  of  truth, — 
But  do  you  feel  that  sense  so  keen 

As  in  }Tour  trusting,  guileless  3'outh  ? 
We  are  not  old  by  count  of  years — 

Not  young,  if  sad  thoughts  may  speed  life, 
Then  let  us  haste  to  shut  our  ears 

On  this  vast  Babel  of  wild  strife. 
Dear  brother  !  take  my  hands  in  yours 

And  lead  me  back  to  childish  joys, 
Before  the  world's  vain  show  allures 

Us  to  forget  that  we  were  boys. 


THE  VOICE  OF  PEACE. 

In  the  tempest's  loudest  howling 

Undertones  we  hear ; 
In  a  vex'd  child's  angry  scowling 

Smiles  oft  linger  near. 
In  the  plant  where  thorns  may  wound  you, 

Search  and  j'ou'll  find  honey, 
Every  close- locked  heart  around  you 

Opens  wide  to  money. 

So  the  world  though  full  of  waring, 

Has  an  ear  for  peace ; 
Voices  breathe  through  all  this  jarring, 

Never  more  to  cease, — 


288  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

And  the  theme  of  these  sweet  lispers 

Is  the  love  of  all : 
Hear  ye  not  their  gentle  whispers, 

Soft  as  dew-drops,  fall? 

Nation  soon  shall  talk  with  nation 

Like  two  fireside  friends, 
When  War's  dreadful  desolation 

And  blind  fuiy  ends. 
War  is  transient — Peace  remaineth 

Constant  to  forgive : 
Man  with  blood  his  hands  now  staineth  ; 

Hands  die,  but  hearts  live. 

From  the  valley  a  mist  creepeth 

At  the  moonlight  hour, 
And  the  dull  earth  while  it  sleepeth 

Owns  its  magic  power ; 
Words  in  lowly  places  spoken, 

Yet  may  wake  a  feeling 
That  shall  heal  a  faith  now  broken — 

Higher  faith  revealing. 


Keijemtai) 


Nehemiah  Wright  was  born  in  Holderness  village,  now  Ashland,  February  20, 
1824.  He  was  partly  fitted  for  college  at  Plymouth  and  New  Hampton  academies. 
In  1842  he  went  to  Illinois,  finished  his  preparatory  studies,  and  entered  Illinois 
College  at  Jacksonville,  in  1844.  Alter  graduation  he  read  medicine  with  his  father  in 
Uis  native  town,  and  received  the  degree  of  M.  D.  from  Rush  Medical  College,  Chi 
cago.  IB  1850  he  settled  in  the  practice  of  medicine  in  Chatham,  111.,  where  he  is 
likely  to  remain,  "going  about  doing  good."  His  life  has  been  one  of  activity,  de 
voted  to  Physic,  Philosophy,  Politics,  and  Poetry.  In  1876  he  read  a  poem  at  the 
reuuion  of  the  Phi  Alpha  Society  of  Illinois  College,  a  society  of  which  he  \va> 
one  of  the  original  founders.  His  son,  Charles  D.  Wright,  M.  D.,  is  now  associated 
with  him  in  the  practice  of  medicine. 


MY  SPIRIT  HOME. 

I  am  alone,  no  one  is  near ;  the  daylight  hours  are  past, 
And,  with  her  sable  curtain,  night  is  shrouding  nature  fast ; 
And  spirit  forms  around  me  move  ;  their  whispers  speak  them  near ; 
They  call  me,  glad  would  I  obey,tkO  come,  thy  home's  not  here." 

Sweet  visions  now  of  other  days,  when  friends  and  hopes  were 

mine, 

And  youthful  fancy  painted  bright  each  scheme  and  fond  design ; 
Then  flowers  above  my  pathway  grew — those  flowers,  now  dead 

and  sere, 
To  me  with  warning  voices  speak,  "Thy  home,  it  is  not  here." 


HENRY  W.  HERRICK.  289 

The  twilight's  past,  its  spirits  fled,  and  darkness  wraps  the  whole  ; 
But  deeper  gloom  than  that  of  night  is  wrapped  around  my  soul. 
The  voices  of  departed  joys  now  fall  on  memory's  ear ; 
United  all,  one  voice  they  speak,  "Thy  spirit's  home's  not  here." 

The  stars  that  gem  the  sparkling  dome,  they  whisper  peace  to  me, 
And  tell  me  that  I  have  a  home  beyond  life's  darkened  sea ; 
And  though  on  earth  no  friends  I  find,  yet  kindred  souls  there  are 
In  that  bright  world,  far,  far  away — my  spirit's  home  is  there. 

0  spirits  of  departed  friends !  too  good,  too  pure  to  die, 
Come  down  upon  the  moon's  pale  beam,  and  hover  round  me  nigh. 
How  soft  and  sweet  their  voices  ring  upon  the  evening  air ; 
Their  music  seems  the  notes  of  heaven  ;  m}T  spirit's  home  is  there. 

Then  my  own  heart,  unresting  still,  is  seeking  to  be  free 
And  plume  its  wings  for  fairer  lands  that  seem  so  near  to  me. 
Then  haste,  dull  life,  why  wait  so  long,  beset  with  grief  and  care  ? 
O  quickly  seek  the  happy  fields — my  spirit's  home  is  there. 


2129.  Derrick. 


H.  W.  Hcrrlck  was  born  In  Hopkinton  in  1824.  He  spent  his  early  life  in  Concord 
and  Nashua  until  about  twenty  years  of  age,  at  which  period  he  settled  in  New  York 
city,  as  an  engraver  and  designer,  where  he  remained  twenty-one  years.  During 
more  than  halt' that  period  he  was  employed  as  an  artist  by  the  Tract  Society,  Har 
per  and  Brothers,  and  the  American  Bank  Note  Company.  He  was  also  connected 
with  the  New  York  School  of  Design  for  Women,  for  six  years,  during  the  latter 
part  of  which  he  was  principal  teacher  and  manager.  In  1805  he  returned  to  this  State 
and  settled  in  Manchester,  where  he  has  since  resided,  employing  his  time  on  book  and 
magazine  illustrations,  and  in  water  color  painting.  He  is  the  author  of  a  work  on 
the  latter  art,  lately  published  in  New  York. 


THE  SPIDER'S  WEB. 

Upon  the  grass  and  heather  spread, 

One  pleasant  summer's  morn, 
A  spider's  fair  and  slender  thread 

From  leaf  to  leaf  was  borne. 

Along  its  glittering  fabric  hung, 

The  early  dew-drops  shine, 
Like  tiny  pearls,  together  strung 

Upon  a  fairy  line. 

From  point  to  point,  with  wond'rous  grace, 

With  skill,  and  beauty  too, 
Each  thread  was  fitted  to  its  place, 

In  net-work  fair  and  true. 


290  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMP8HIEE. 

Wise  builder !  He  who  made  thee  live 
And  taught  thee  wond'rous  things, 

Hath  said  thy  work  a  place  should  have 
In  palaces  of  kings. 

And  by  Him,  too,  thy  tissue  frail, 
An  emblem  true  is  given  ; 

That  hopes  of  hypocrites  shall  fail 
To  give  them  joys  of  heaven. 


THE  HUMBLE  BEE. 

A  humble  bee  was  buzzing  round 

One  pleasant  summer's  day, 
And  in  our  garden  fair,  he  found, 

The  blossoms  bright  and  gay : 
With  dainty  tongue,  and  busy  wing, 
From  flower  to  flower  was  wandering. 

With  drowsy  hum,  in  flower's  bell, 

He  sought  his  forage  fair ; 
He  dived  him  to  its  honey  cell, 

And  rolled  in  sweetness  there  ; 
A  dew-drop  served  of  drink  instead, 
And  there  he  dined  on  honey-bread. 

It  chanced  that  Tottie,  playing  there, 

Saw  humble-bee  go  by, 
And  in  his  child's  simplicity 

Mistook  it  for  a  fly, 
Not  knowing  that  such  bus}'  flies 
Have  stings  for  all  their  enemies. 

The  pretty  thing  he  grasped  with  glee, 

But  quickly  did  he  get, 
Thrust  in  his  hand,  by  humble-bee, 

Its  needle  bayonet. 
With  stamp  and  cries  he  runs  to  me, 
With  bitter  plaints  of  humble-bee. 

O  heed,  my  boy,  the  lesson  well, 

And  let  this  truth  abide, 
That  danger  lurks  where  pleasures  dwell, 

And  stings  in  ambush  hide. 
No  lasting  joy  earth's  folly  brings, 
And  sin,  like  humble-bee,  hath  stings. 


GEOEGE  NELSON  BE  YANT.  29 1 

THE  TOMB  OF  STARK. 

No  trappings  of  state,  their  bright  honors  unfolding, 
No  gorgeous  display,  marks  the  place  of  thy  rest ; 

But  the  granite  points  out  where  thy  body  lies  mouldering, 
And  the  wild-rose  is  shedding  its  sweets  o'er  thy  breast. 

The  zephyrs  of  evening  shall  sport  with  the  willow, 
And  play  through  the  grass,  where  the  flowerets  creep, 

While  the  thoughts  of  the  brave,  as  he  bends  o'er  thy  pillow, 
Shall  hallow  the  spot  of  the  hero's  last  sleep. 

As  from  glory  and  honor  to  death  thou  descended, 

Twas  meet  thou  shouldst  lie,  by  the  Merrimac's  wave  ; 

It  was  well  thou  shouldst  sleep  'mongst  the  hills  thou  defended, 
And  take  thy  last  rest  in  so  simple  a  grave. 

There  forever  thou'lt  sleep,  and  though  ages  roll  o'er  tkee, 
And  crumble  the  stone  o'er  thy  ashes  to  earth, 

The  sons  of  the  free  shall  with  reverence  adore  thee, 
The  pride  of  the  mountains,  that  gave  thee  thy  birth. 


Nelson  13rgant 


Rev.  George  N.  Bryant  is  a  brother  of  Rev.  J.  C.  Bryant,  whose  poems  are  found 
elsewhere  in  this  volume.  He  was  born  in  New  Boston,  May  21,  1824.  In  1849,  after 
«»mpleting  a  course  of  theological  study,  he  entered  the  gospel  ministry  in  the  New 
Hampshire  conference  of  the  Methodist  church,  and  has  served  with  acceptability 
some  of  the  prominent  churches  of  that  denomination  in  the  State. 


EVENINGS  AT  HOME. 

It  is  not  that  my  feelings  are  cold, 

Or  dead  to  society's  charms  ; 
Nor  my  spirit  too  timid  to  hold 

Its  course  in  the  midst  of  alarms  ; 
Yet  from  business,  labor  and  noise, 

I  love  in  the  twilight  to  come 
"Where  rivalry  never  annoj's, 

And  spend  cheery  evenings  at  home. 

There's  a  time  when  my  spirits  unbend 

From  the  drudgery  life  has  imposed  ; 
"When  the  dews  of  affection  descend 

On  gardens  of  pleasure  enclosed. 
There's  a  place  discontent  enters  not, 

Where  hatred  and  strife  never  come  ; 
Such  a  place  is  my  own  humble  cot, 

That  time  the  sweet  evenings  at  home. 


292  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  brilliant  saloon  tempts  me  not, 

Nor  dance  of  the  revellers  gay  ; 
For  their  pleasures  too  dearlj-  are  bought 

And  pass  like  a  shadow  away. 
Oft  their  devotees  sink  in  despair, 

Like  mariners  'neath  the  white  foam, 
Never  tasting  the  comforts  they  share 

Who  spend  brighter  evenings  at  home. 

It  is  said  there  is  joy  in  the  wine 

The  spirits  despondent  to  cheer ; 
That  the  play  and  soft  music  combine 

To  please  both  the  mind  and  the  ear: 
Let  them  follow  these  phantoms  who  will, 

And  far  for  such  joys  widely  roam, 
I'm  unchanged  in  my  purposes  still, 

For  richest  are  evenings  at  home. 

There  is  music  and  beauty  and  wealth, 

In  the  realm  of  my  own  little  cot 
Where  my  children  are  romping  in  health, 

And  dear  wife  upbraideth  me  not. 
I  grudge  not  the  wealth  or  the  woes 

Endured  'neath  the  elegant  dome, 
Nor  will  suffer  the  malice  of  foes, 

To  mar  my  sweet  evenings  at  home. 


I  AM  THE  DOOR. 

I  hear  thee  say,  "I  am  the  door," 
Saviour,  and  yet  my  feet  are  sore 
With  wanderings  long  ;  my  garments  torn  ; 
Wounded  my  flesh  with  cruel  thorn. 

"I  am  the  door ;  enter  by  me." 
O  that  I  now  could  fly  to  thee  ; 
Could  taste  the  dear  delights  of  those, 
Who  safely  in  thy  love  repose. 

But  night  comes  o'er  me  cheerless,  cold  ; 
The  shepherd  safe  within  the  fold 
Gathers  his  sheep.     Unfriended  I, 
A  wandering  sheep,  where  shall  I  fly  ? 

Athwart  the  gloom  fierce  lightnings  flash  ; 
On  startled  ears  the  thunders  crash  ; 
The  storm  across  the  heather  howls, 
The  hungry  wolf  for  raven  prowls. 


GEORGE  NELSON  BRYANT.  293 

"I  am  the  door."     Yes  Lord  I  hear, 
Still  my  poor  heart  is  rent  with  fear  : 
That  door  of  hope  is  for  thine  own, 
While  I  to  stray  am  sadly  prone. 

"If  any  enter  he  shall  live, 
Shall  rest,  protection,  food  receive." 
If  any? — O  that  blissful  sound 
Brings  comfort  in  the  gloom  profound. 

Indulgent  Lord,  that  open  door 
To  enter,  I  delay  no  more  ; 
And  coming  how,  O  joy  !  O  bliss  ! 
The  Saviour  sweetly  calls  me  his. 

Now  rage  the  storm ;  now  thunders  roll ; 
Raven  the  wolf;  my  peaceful  soul 
Shall  yield  to  sin  and  fear  no  more, 
Secure  in  Christ  the  living  door. 


HYMN  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Ye  mountains  great  and  tall, 
In  majesty  that  stand, 
While  empires  rise  and  fall     t 
As  billows  on  the  strand  ; 
Each  lofty  height,  each  deep  profound, 
Is  with  an  awful  grandeur  crowned  ; 
And  each  presents  to  us  a  holy  shrine, 
A  chosen  dwelling  of  the  great  Divine. 

As  insects  of  a  day 
Up  3'our  rough  sides  we  creep, 
With  slow  and  painful  way  : 
Or  from  the  craggy  steep, 
Upon  the  nether  world  we  gaze 
With  new  delight  and  notes  of  praise ; 
And  God,  who  reared  these  everlasting  piles, 
From  highest  heaven,  accepts  our  praise  and  smiles. 

No  voice  nor  speech  is  3'ours, 
No  acts  your  worship  speak, 
These  soft,  expressive  powers 
Are  given  to  the  weak  : 
And  yet  there  seems  in  every  stone, 
And  cliff,  and  gorge,  and  valley  lone, 
Persuasive  power  to  lead  our  thoughts  to  God, 
More  than  in  courts  by  thoughtless  thousands  trod. 


294  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Your  lessons,  grand  and  deep, 
Strongly  our  minds  impress — 
Our  erring  hearts  shall  keep 
When  busy  cares  oppress  : 
And  your  stability  proclaim, 
God  now  and  evermore  the  same ; 
The  good  man's  firm  and  never  failing  trust, 
When  e'en  your  granite  walls  crumble  to  dust. 


(ffarolme  ISUjatetf)  Jenness. 

Miss  Jenness,  the  oldest  child  of  Richard  Jenness,  a  gentleman  prominently 
known  in  Portsmouth,  in  business,  financial  and  social  circles,  was  born  in  Deer- 
field,  August  22, 1824.  In  1828  her  father  removed  to  Portsmouth,  where  Elizabeth, 
lived  until  her  death,  which  occurred  December  1,  1857.  The  writings  of  this  lady, 
with  a  memoir,  printed  for  private  circulation  in  1858,  show  her  ability  as  a  pros* 
writer,  as  well  as  her  accomplished  style  of  poetry. 


REPOSE. 

On  downy  pillows  lain,  she  prays  : 

Her  soft  eyes  ope  and  close  again  ; 
And,  unto  her  unfinished  prayer, 

The  angels  say  the  glad  "Arnen"  ; 
While,  half-unclasped  her  languid  hands, 

She  sleeps  with  such  a  gentle  art, 
That  scarce  her  heaving  limbs  betray 

The  quiet  heaving  of  her  heart. 
So  quick  asleep,  not  hidden  quite, 
Her  lovely  limbs  peep  to  the  light 
The  envious  down  would  hide  from  sight. 

Her  golden  hair  curls  round  her  cap  ; 

And,  as  her  rosy  lips  unclose, 
The  easy  breathings  falter  forth 

Like  perfumes  loath  to  leave  a  rose  ; 
And,  dimly  bright,  the  lashes  seem 

To  steal  light  from  her  e}'es  in  mirth, 
Or  as  some  homesick  beams,  returned 

Unto  the  suns  that  gave  them  birth ; 
While,  gathered  in  her  snowy  breast, 
Life  and  the  Loves  together  rest : 
How  could  they  leave  so  sweet  a  nest? 

The  air  is  sweet ;  for  dying  flowers 

Send  their  last  breath  to  scenes  like  this  ;* 

And,  sighing,  blows  the  love-sick  wind, 
Trembling  to  meet  her  with  a  kiss  : 

While,  with  a  faint  and  dreamy  light, 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.  295 

The  lamp  half  shows,  half  hides  her  face, 
As  night  were,  by  itself  illumed, 

Burning  to  see  her  lovely  face  ; 
And  worthless  Fancy  flieth  thence, 
Where  she  lies  sleeping,  with  shut  sense, 
Like  the  child -goddess,  Innocence. 


FEAR  NOT. 

I  will  not  fear,  I  will  not  fear ; 

For  He  is  by  my  side  : 
In  pastures  fair  He  leadeth  me, 

In  pastures  green  and  wide, 
And  by  the  rivers  calm  and  clear, 

And  where  bright  waters  roll : 
I  will  not  fear,  I  will  not  fear ; 

His  strength  is  in  my  soul. 

He  watcheth  me  amid  the  storm, 

And  on  the  raging  sea  ; 
His  guidance  is  my  steadfast  hope, 

When  earthly  hopes  may  flee. 
I  weep  no  more  for  grief  or  woe, 

And  I  will  fear  no  ill : 
He  loveth  me,  He  feedeth  me  : 

My  God  is  with  me  still. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

The  first  discoverers  of  America  believed  that  there  was  a  fountain  in  Florida, 
which  possessed  the  miraculous  power  of  restoring  youth  to  the  aged. 

We  are  travelling  on  to  the  Fountain  of  Youth  ; 

Yet,  brothers,  stay  awhile, 
And  dream  once  more  of  our  sunny  land, 

Where  the  laughing  vineyards  smile  : 
Then  our  steps  we'll  speed,  though  weary  and  faint, 

To  the  dim  and  distant  shore, 
Where  we  deem  that  the  clouds  of  sorrow  and  grief 

Will  darken  our  e}'es  no  more. 

For  they  tell  us,  that  there,  in  that  radiant  land, 

That  beautiful  land  of  dreams, 
The  summer  and  sunshine  do  never  pass 

From  the  blue  and  silvery  streams  ; 
And  a  dim  and  strange  mysterious  strength 

On  the  sparkling  rills  has  lain  ; 
For  the  spirit  of  God  has  breathed  on  the  waves, 

And  they  bring  us  our  youth  again. 


296  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Then  speed,  let  us  speed,  to  the  glorious  strand 

Where  the  gems  lie  thick  like  clew  ; 
And  bathe  in  the  fount  and  the  murmuring  rills 

That  bring  us  our  youth  anew  : 
For  our  life  is  a  cold  and  weary  thing 

In  this  mansion-house  of  woe  ; 
But  pain  will  flee  on  the  emerald  banks, 

Where  the  lulling* waters  flow. 

But  they  never  found  the  Fountain  of  Youth 

On  that  lonely  and  lovely  shore, 
And  their  wasted  joys  and  their  rifled  gems 

Came  back  to  their  souls  no  more  : 
Yet  they  found  a  stream  of  enduring  strength, 

Whose  beauty  can  never  fude, 
More  bright  than  the  rivers  of  light  that  flow 

In  the  wilderness'  gloom  and  shade. 

For  their  faith  grew  firm,  and  their  trust  more  deep, 

In  the  spirit  of  God  above  ; 
And  their  hearts  were  filled  with  a  holier  hope, 

A  higher  and  purer  love. 
Their  souls  were  strong,  for  they  knew  that  their  tears 

Had  not  been  given  in  vain  ; 
And  they  found  the  Fountain  of  Youth  on  high, 

In  the  Eden  land  again. 


feline  13. 


Mrs.  Whitney  was  born  In  Boston,  Mass.,  Sept.  15,  1824.  Her  father's  name  was 
Enoch  Train,  a  well-known  shipping  merchant,  and  the  founder  and  proprietor  of 
the  first  line  of  large  regular  packet  ships  between  Boston  and  Liverpool.  Her 
mother,  whose  name  she  bears,  was  Adeline  Dutton  of  Hillsborough,  and  she  was 
the  eldest  child.  A  large  part  of  Mrs.  Whitney's  life  has  been  spent  in  this  State. 
Her  mother's  native  town  was  early  associated  with  her  childhood.  In  after  years 
Mrs.  Whitney's  summer  home  was  in  Alsteadwitli  Mrs.  Gibson.  She  has  been 
much  among  the  White  Mountains,  in  different  parts,  and  altogether  has  spent 
more  time  and  happier  in  New  Hampshire  than  anywhere  else  away  from  her 
permanent  home,  which  has  been  in  Mi.  ten.  Mass.,  ever  since  her  marriage  in  1843. 
Her  husband  is  Mr.  Seth  I).  Whitney,  son  of  Moses  Whitney,  whose  long  and 
active  life  was  spent  as  a  resident  of  that  town.  The  old  family  home  is  on  Milton 
Hill,  and  is  still  in  possession  of  the  family. 


OUR  HOME-MAKER. 

On  the  death  of  Mrs.  Gibson  of  Alstead,  at  whoso  homo  the  writer  was  a  fre 
quent  guest. 

Where  the  mountains  slope  to  the  westward, 

And  their  purple  chalices  hold 
The  new-made  wine  of  the  sunset, — 

Crimson,  and  amber,  and  gold  ; — 


ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY.  297 

In  the  old,  wide-opened  doorwa}', 

With  the  clra-bonghs  overhead, — 
The  house  all  garnished  behind  her, 

And  the  plentiful  table  spread  ; — 

She  has  stood  to  welcome  our  coming, 

Watching  our  upward  climb, 
In  the  sweet  June  weather  that  brought  us 

Oh,  many  and  many  a  time  ! 

To-day,  in  the  gentle  splendor 

Of  the  early  summer  noon, — 
Perfect  in  sunshine  and  fragrance, 

Although  it  is  hardly  June, — 

Again  is  her  doorway  opened, 

And  the  house  all  garnished  and  sweet ; 

But  she  silently  waits  for  our  coining, 
And  we  enter  with  silent  feet. 

A  little  within  she  is  waiting ; 

Not  where  she  has  met  us  before ; 
For  over  the  pleasant  threshold 

She  is  only  to  cross  once  more. 

The  smile  on  her  face  is  quiet, 

And  a  lily  is  on  her  breast ; 
Her  hands  are  folded  together, 

And  the  word  on  her  lips  is  "Rest." 

And  yet  it  looks  like  a  welcome, 

For  her  work  is  compassed  and  done ; 
All  things  are  seemly  and  ready, 

And  her  summer  is  just  begun. 

It  is  we  who  may  not  cross  over ; 

Only  with  song  and  prayer, 
A  little  way  into  the  glory 

We  may  reach  as  we  leave  her  there. 

But  we  cannot  think  of  her  idle  ; 

She  must  be  a  home-maker  still ; 
God  giveth  that  work  to  the  angels 

Who  fittest  the  task  fulfil. 

And  somewhere  yet  on  the  hill  tops 

Of  the  countiy  that  hath  no  pain, 
She  will  watch  in  the  beautiful  doorway 

To  bid  us  welcome  again. 


298  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  TWO  POWERS. 

Take  thy  pen,  O  prophet !  write. 
Tell  the  world  thy  spirit-sight. 
All  thy  errand  swift  record, 
Straight  from  whispers  of  the  Lord  ! 
Double  edges  of  his  truth, — 
Messages  of  wrath  and  ruth, — 
Flash  upon  men's  eyes  in  words, 
Like  the  gleam  of  naked  swords ! 

God  would  save  the  nations  when 
For  the  sword  he  sends  the  pen. 

Warrior,  gird  tli3'self  with  might ! 
Bare  the  blade,  and  seek  the  fight ! 
Sin's  broad  page  is  crimson  writ, 
Crimson  now  must  cancel  it. 
Folded  is  the  prophet's  scroll ; 
Silence  waits  within  his  soul : 
For  the  warning  mercy-call, 
Burns  a  judgment  on  the  wall. 

When  the  reckoning  is  scored 

God's  pen  is  a  flaming  sword  ! 

Write  once  more,  strong  scribe,  and  say 

How  they  faced  that  fearful  day, 

Quit  them  righteously  and  well, 

If  they  stood,  or  if  they  fell : 

Or,  if  giving  half  their  life 

In  the  hot  and  sudden  strife, 

Calm  they  bore  the  crowning  test, 

Rendering  in  slow  pain  the  rest ! 

In  such  histories  of  men, 
Measure  still  with  sword,  O  pen ! 

Powers  of  word,  and  powers  of  deed, — 
One  the  anointing,  one  the  need, — 
Still  foresay,  and  still  fulfil 
All  that  grand,  mj-sterious  will 
In  whose  might  the  peoples  move 
To  their  franchisement  above  ! 
Sign  and  story  still  record 
Straight  from  purpose  of  the  Lord  ! 

His  own  time  he  knoweth,  when 
He  shall  lay  down  sword  and  pen. 


MIEON  JAMES  HAZEL  TINE. 


Jftircm  James 


Miron  J.  Hazeltine,  was  born  in  Rumney,  Nov.  13,  1824.  In  1847  he  entered  Col 
lege  in  Amherst,  Mass.,  but  was  thrown  out  before  the  completion  of  the  course  of 
study  by  an  almost  fatal  accident  in  the  gymnasium.  On  leaving  college,  since 
which  he  has  always  suffered  as  a  partial  invalid,  he  began  the  study  of  law 
in  Lowell,  Mass.,  where  he  remained  about  four  years.  He  then  went  to  New 
York  city,  and  was  principal  of  a  classical  and  select  school,  where  he  remained 
about  ten  years.  He  was  married  in  1853,  to  Miss  Hannah  M.  Bryant,  youngest 
daughter  of  Asa  Bryant,  who  was  a  cousin  of  the  poet  William  C.  Bryant.  For  the 
last  fourteen  years  their  home  has  been  at  "The  Larches,"  Campion  Village.  He 
has  been  a  chess  editor  for  about  twenty-eight  years,  and  has  continuously 
held  the  chair  of  Chess  on  the  New  York  Clipper  for  twenty-six  years.  Many  ex 
cellent  poems  of  his  are  found  in  the  pages  of  the  Literary  American,  published  in 
New  York  city,  of  which  the  late  Geo.  P.  Quackenbos  was  editor  and  proprietor. 


THE  AWAKING  OF  FREEDOM. 

A  sound  has  gone  forth  like  the  winds  on  their  pinions, 

A  key-note  of  terror  b}T  tyrants  is  heard  ; 
Fear  sits  on  their  sceptres  and  paled  are  their  minions, 

As  at  earthquake  prognostics,  ere  nature  is  stirred. 

But  whence  their  dismay — has  war's  tocsin  alarmed  them 
With  a  call  to  the  field  of  the  soul-stirring  drum  ? 

Have  traitors  within,  or  their  own  fears  disarmed  them, 
And  must  ruin  and  slaughter,  unstriven  with,  come? 

Ah,  no  !  'tis  no  mightier  despot  arising, 

With  blood  and  oppression  to  curse  the  fair  earth, 

That's  crushing  the  weaker,  and  rivals  surprising — 
Ah,  no  !  'tis  the  glad  shout  of  Liberty's  birth.        , 

It  rolls  o'er  the  plain,  is  reechoed  by  mountains  ; 

God's  own  thunder-trump  swells  the  shout  to  the  sky ; 
The  seal  of  oppression  is  rent  from  the  fountains 

Of  the  rights  of  the  people  which  sparkle  on  high. 

What  wonder,  when  tyrants  perceive  their  thrones  tremble, 
That  a  cordon  of  bayonets  round  them  they  draw  ! 

Yet  these  but  of  hope  and  true  safety  dissemble, 
For  the  spear  is  a  bulrush,  the  sword  is  a  straw ; 

When  Freedom  divine  in  her  might  is  awaking, 
And  arouses  the  soul  of  the  brave  to  be  free  ; 

When  the  mass  its  age-riveted  shackles  is  breaking, 
And  to  its  own  dungeons  Oppression  must  flee. 

Proud  autocrat,  think  not  thy  haughty  endeavor 
From  thy  vast  dominions  the  sound  can  repel, 

Which  Freedom  has  started  ;  for  swelling  forever, 
Its  echoes  nor  ukase  nor  sabre  can  quell. 


300  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  ye  with  a  sword  can  repel  the  wild  ocean, 
Or  the  weird  Borealis  extinguish  in  night ; 

Then  warlike  array  shall  check  Liberty's  motion, 
And  tyrant's  decrees  quench  forever  her  light. 

The  flame  is  re-kindled  on  Liberty's  altar, 

More  pure  than  for  which  the  old  Greek  ever  died ; 

True  hearts  and  good  blades,  that  can  ne'er  fail  nor  falter, 
Are  sworn  to  protect  it  with  God  on  their  side. 


WORDS. 

Charge  not  all  upon  thy  brother, 
That  he  seemeth  to  deserve  ; 

Gentle  words  may  discord  smother, 
Fiercest  moods  of  hate  unnerve. 

Better  far  some  trifling  failing 
Be  excused,  or  softened  o'er, 

Than  at  every  error  railing, 

Causing  hearts  to  wander  more. 

When  thy  toiling  brother  pauscth, 
That  the  wa3~s  of  life  are  hard ; 
Oft  a  word  new  vigor  causeth, 
"  Hope  will  brighten,  fear  discard. 

Mid  the  noisy,  factious  forum, 

See  the  mighty  sage  arise  ; 
Awe  the  tumult  to  decorum, 

By  the  words  his  brain  supplies. 

In  the  prostrate,  conquered  city, 

Lawless,  mercenary  bands 
Sta}r,  though  void  of  fear  or  pity, 

At  their  captain's  known  commands. 

When  the  storm  encompassed  Saviour 
His  disciples'  clamors  heard, 

Chiding  still  their  faint  behavior, 
Gracious  spake  the  saving  word. 

Surely  mind  controllcth  matter, 
Matter,  which  shall  soon  cleca}' ; 

Though  to  dust  all  bodies  scatter, 
Soul  remains  a  heavenly  ray. 


MIEON  JAMES  HAZEL  TINE.  301 

When  to  heaven  the  soul  returneth, 

Truth  and  progress  it  demands  ; 
For  seraphic  knowledge  yearneth, 

Ever  to  new  heights  expands. 

There  no  book  the  spirit  needeth 

As  its  medium  slow  to  learn  ; 
God  and  nature  free  it  readeth, 

All  its  thoughts  untrammelled  burn. 

But  within  this  clayey  dwelling 

Senses  are  the  paths  of  thought ; 
All  the  longings  in  us  swelling 

'Neath  the  chains  of  time  are  brought. 

Though  the  body  proves  a  fetter, 

Life  is  dark,  a  toil  and  bleak  ; 
Make  it  cheerful,  till  a  better 

Death,  releasing,  bids  us  seek. 

Frowns  and  harshness  chill  the  spirit, 

Turn  it  to  its  ills  again  ; 
Bar  from  sympathy,  and  sear  it 

To  the  wants  and  woes  of  men. 

All  our  ills  are  halved  by  sharing ; 

All  our  jo}^  are  doubled  o'er ; 
For  thy  brother,  burden-bearing, 

Have  a  kindly  word  in  store. 


TO  THE  SEA. 

(Dedicated  to  Geo.  Payn  Quackenbos,  LL.D.  and  wife,  embarking  for  a  winter 
voyage.) 

Placid  as  thou  art,  O  Sea, 

Smiling  thus  in  seeming  rest, 

Take  upon  thy  heaving  breast 
Treasure,  to  return  to  me. 

Shut  in  caves  thy  winds,  O  Sea, 
True,  in  quiet  they're  my  dread ; 
All  restrained  below,  o'erhead, 

So  my  treasure  comes  to  me. 

Treacherous  art  thou,  O  Sea, 
Smil'st  engulphing  still  the  keel, 
Pleasure  nor  remorse  canst  feel- 
Is  my  treasure  safe  for  me? 


302  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Well,  I  dread  thy  moods,  O  Sea, 
Keel  thy  surface  never  ploughed, 
Save  to  chance  of  thee  a  shroud — 

Give  my  treasure  back  to  me  ! 

Sateless  is  thy  maw,  O  Sea, 
But,  athwart  this  chosen  deck, 
Let  no  billow's  foamy  fleck 

Threat  my  treasure  snatched  from  me. 

Smiles  of  sky  return,  O  Sea, 
Speed  to  sunny  southern  mark 
This  so  precious  freighted  bark  ; 

So  my  treasure's  kept  for  me. 

Votive  offerings  shall,  O  Sea, 
Great  Poseidon's  temple  grace, 
If,  as  I  these  couplets  trace, 

Thou  my  treasure  promise  me. 

Good  !  I  see  a  sign,  O  Sea, 
Promise,  hopeful  as  our  youth : 
I  receive  the  welcome  truth — 

Come  my  treasure  will  to  me. 


Hannah  M.  Bryant  was  born  in  New  Boston,  August  20, 1827.  Compelled  to  leave 
school  before  fifteen  years  of  age,  her  education  is  mainly  such  as  she  has  obtained 
in  intermissions  of  labor,  odd  moments,  and  by  close  observation.  She  was  mar 
ried  in  1853  to  Miron  J.  Hazeltine.  She  has  been,  since  the  age  of  nineteen,  a  con 
stant  contributor  to  various  papers  and  magazines,  and  her  poems  have  been  wide 
ly  copied  and  favorably  noticed,  both  iu  this  country  and  in  England. 

A  NORTHERN  OCTOBER. 

The  morn  is  clear — from  far  and  near 
The  fainting  stars  now  disappear ; 
From  eastern  skies  auroral  dyes, 
In  deepening  colors  flush  and  rise. 

In  valleys  deep,  where  shadows  sleep, 
The  gathered  mists  now  rise  and  creep 
O'er  mountains  wide,  whose  tops  divide 
This  earth  from  heaven  whose  doors  they  hide. 

Dark  clusters  shine  amid  the  vine, 
For  Bacchus'  feast  a  tempting  sign  ; 
The  creaking  wain,  with  golden  grain, 
Comes  slowly  winding  through  the  lane. 


HANNAH  BE  YANT  HAZEL  TINE.  303 

The  apple  fair,  the  peach  and  pear, 
Pomona's  gifts,  are  everywhere  ; 
All  through  the  vale  the  squashes  trail, 
And  pumpkins  glow  in  yellow  mail. 

The  fields  once  green,  the  hills  between, 
Now  sparkle  in  their  frosty  sheen ; 
But  brown  and  sere,  the  woods  appear 
In  mourning  garments  for  the  year. 

The  sun's  mild  rays,  through  smoky  haze, 
Betoken  Indian  summer  days ; 
While  soft  and  bright,  with  golden  light 
The  harvest  moon  illumes  the  night. 

On  hill,  in  run,  for  gain  or  fun, 
Is  heard  the  sportsman's  ringing  gun  : 
Silent,  alone,  by  swirl  or  stone 
The  angler's  fly  is  deftly  thrown. 

The  autumn  breeze,  with  riven  leaves, 
Brings  pattering  nuts  from  chestnut  trees  ; 
From  beeches  bare,  now  here,  now  there, 
The  squirrels  winter  food  prepare. 

As  wanes  the  year,  so  disappear 
The  ties  of  earth  that  bind  us  here  ; 
Till,  one  by  one,  our  duties  done, 
We  rest  with  life's  last  setting  sun. 


MORNING,  NOON  AND  NIGHT. 

Morn  is  for  quiet  thought ;  when  the  tired  brain 
And  wearied  body,  calmed  by  sweet  repose, 

Forget  the  toil  of  yesterday,  its  pain, 
Its  blighting  woes  ; 

And  thus  refreshed  they  grasp  once  more  the  load, 

And  march  with  boldness  on  the  dusty  road. 

Thus  may  thy  life,  serene  in  early  morn, 
Fit  and  prepare  thee  for  the  noontide  heat ; 

When  thou  shalt  join  the  ever-moving  throngs 
That  onward  press  with  busy,  restless  feet. 

Noon  is  for  steady  toil,  for  anxious  care, 

When  all  our  powers  of  body,  will,  or  mind, 
Are  bent  to  solve  the  problem,  "How  to  live  ;" 

Alas !  few  find 
The  answer  ere  their  weary  course  is  run, 


304  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  life  is  ended  nor  their  labor  done. 
See  that  thy  noon,  in  well-directed  course 

Of  active  duties  be  in  honor  passed  ; 
Till  spent  with  toil,  life's  mid-day  heats  all  o'er, 

Thou  shalt  find  rest  in  calm  content  at  last. 

Night  is  for  dreams,  for  love  ;  our  labor  o'er 

We  seek  for  rest,  for  warmth,  for  grateful  cheer 

And  in  the  presence  of  our  loved  to  find 
All  that  is  dear 

Of  kindly  sympathy,  of  trust  and  love, 

That  lift  the  soul  to  nobler  things  above. 

Thus  may  the  evening  of  thy  life  come  on  : 

Conscious  of  time  well  spent,  a  course  well  run, 

When  the  night  closes  o'er  thee,  may'st  thou  hear 
A  Father's  welcome  in  the  sweet  "Well  Done." 


CLOUD  PICTURES. 

Dedicated  to  my  little  daughter,  Alice  May  Hazeltine,  who  gave  me  the  Idea 
embodied  in  the  poem. 

A  soft,  balmy  night  in  the  summer — 

The  sun  had  just  sunk  to  his  rest, 
And  trooping  to  witness  his  exit 

Came  beautiful  clouds  in  the  west : 
There  were  some  that  were  golden  and  foamy, 

Like  the  down  on  the  wing  of  a  bird ; 
And  some  were  in  figures  fantastic, 

By  the  breathing  of  Hesperus  stirred. 

From  the  balcony's  seat  we  were  watching 

The  changes,  my  children  and  I, 
When  quaint  little  Alice,  the  dreamer, 

Exclaimed,  "There's  a  church  in  the  sky !" 
There  were  towers  and  turrets  and  steeple, 

Dome,  buttress  and  gable  were  there ; 
But  while  we  were  looking,  it  tottered 

And  fell,  a  thin  wreck,  in  the  air. 

And  now,  on  the  limitless  azure, 

Came  a  swan  ;  but  alas,  the  poor  thing ! 
While  we  viewed,  there  was  nothing  remaining 

But  the  body  and  one  drooping  wing. 
A  portrait,  with  huge  Roman  features, 

Was  slowlj'  unfolded  to  shape  ; 
But  progress  was  backward — the  Roman 

Was  changed  to  a  mimicking  ape. 


JAMES  W.  BARKER.  305 


"A  bear !"  shouted  Alice  ;  and  rampant 

Stood  Bruin,  as  if  to  embrace 
Orion,  who,  fancy  could  picture, 

Was  following  close  on  the  chase ; 
But  the  knife  of  the  hunter,  it  may  be, 

Had  struck  to  the  heart  of  the  bear, 
For  he  parted  just  back  of  the  shoulder, 

And  he,  too,  dissolved  in  the  air. 

But  see,  in  the  deep  glow  of  sunset, 

Caparisoned  as  for  the  fray, 
A  knight,  on  his  charger,  come  prancing 

As  in  chivalr}''s  glorious  day  ; 
From  his  shoulders  the  bright-colored  caftan 

Streamed  forth  on  the  cool  evening  blast, 
And  I  fancied  the  rider  the  spirit 

Of  Salah-ud-din  flashing  past. 

But  night-dews  are  falling  around  us, 

And  shadows  are  gathering  o'erhead ; 
'Tis  time  that  the  eyes  of  my  darlings 

Were  closed  in  their  snug  little  bed  : 
And  remember,  my  children,  these  pictures 

Are  like  pleasures  of  life — you  will  find 
When  brightest  they  vanish,  and  shadows 

Remain  as  their  token,  behind. 


James 


.1.  W.  Barker  was  born  in  Vermont  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Lake  Champlain. 
When  he  was  quite  young  his  parents  removed  to  this  State  and  made  their  home 
in  Antrim.  He  was  educated  at  the  academy  in  that  town,  and  was  fitted  for  Col 
lege.  He  then  studied  medicine  for  a  time,  but  never  applied  for  a  degree.  He 
turned  his  attention  to  teaching,  and  that  has  been  his  life-work.  In  1845  he  went 
to  Western  New  York,  and  in  that  section  most  of  his  life  thus  far  has  been  spent. 
Asa  teacher  he  has  been  successful.  He  was  elected  President  of  the  State  Teach 
ers'  Association  in  1868.  He  has  often  read  poems  before  literary  societies.  He 
wrote  the  "Centennial  Poem,"  read  in  Antrim  in  1877.  For  six  years  he  was  one  of 
the  editors  of  the  Aew  York  Teacher.  He  was  at  one  time  one  of  the  proprietors  of 
the  Daily  Journal  and  Courier,  and  of  the  Weekly  Intelligencer,  at  Lockport,  N.  Y., 
and  became  co-editor  thereof.  The  office  of  these  papers  was  destroyed  by  fire, 
and  the  loss  ruined  him  financially.  After  this  disaster  he  resumed  teaching  in 
Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  where  he  still  remains  as  principal  of  the  Grammar  School.  He  has 
written  and  published  many  poems,  and  has  prepared  a  volume  entitled  "Wayside 
Songs,"  which  may  give  a  more  permanent  form  to  his  writings. 


DARNING  STOCKINGS. 

Were  there  never  a  standing  record 
To  measure  time's  rapid  flight, 

Were  there  never  a  clock  or  dial 

I  should  know  it  were  Saturday  night ; 


306  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


I  should  know  by  the  pile  of  stockings 

In  the  basket  on  the  floor, 
That  the  six  days'  work  was  ended, 

And  another  week  was  o'er  ; 

And  the  balls  upon  the  table 

Of  white  and  twisted  yarn, 
The  needle,  smooth  and  shining, 

That  was  only  made  to  darn, 
And  the  patient,  busy  stitching, 

With  the  weaving  to- and  fro, 
While  a  careful  eye  is  watching 

For  the  rents  in  heel  and  toe. 

And  every  breach  is  mended 

In  a  manner  most  complete, — 
A  dozen,  neat  and  tidy, 

For  as  many  busy  feet ; 
Then  off  in  the  quiet  dreamland 

With  a  spirit  gentle  and  light, 
The  pale  and  thoughtful  watcher 

Is  welcoming  Saturday  night. 

Let  us  learn  from  darning  stockings, 

A  lesson  of  patience  and  love  ; 
From  the  midst  of  the  selfish  shadows, 

Let  our  spirits  mount  above  ; 
The  children  of  woe,  we'll  befriend  them, 

Whoever  the  sufferers  be, 
We'll  seek  for  their  faults,  but  to  mend  them 

With  stitchiugs  of  charity. 


ONE  REQUEST. 

Life  is  a  principle  divine, 

Whose  radiant  stars  of  glory  shine 

Above  the  darkness  of  its  sea  ; 
And  one  fair  star  upon  the  wave, 
Shines  through  the  darkness  of  the  grave, 

The  star  of  Immortality  ! 

But  sometime,  in  my  lonely  hours, 
When  mildew  rests  upon  the  flowers, 

And  idle  frost-winds  whisper  by  ; 
When  in  the  vale,  I  seem  to  hear 
The  murmur  of  the  dying  yi';ir. 

And  shadows  dim  the  starry  sky  ; — 


EDWABD  A.  HOSMER.  307 

Upon  the  margin  of  a  stream 
I  see,  as  in  a  glowing  dream, 

A  spot  of  earth,  this  bodj-'s  home, 
And  round  it  as. the  shadows  fall 
At  evening,  gentle  voices  call, 

And  spirit  tokens  bid  me  come. 

Well,  when  I  reach  that  rustic  shore, 
When  this  life's  joy  and  pain  are  o'er, 

And  loving  friends  around  me  gather, 
When  by  my  side  the  angel  stand-s, 
To  lead  me  with  his  gentle  hands 

Across  the  lone  and  silent  river ; 

When  this  frail  dust  hath  lost  its  power, 
To  serve  its  mission  of  an  hour, 

I  little  heed  what  friends  may  do ; 
If  love  shall  move,  with  sweet  control, 
The  tender  longings  of  the  soul, 

When  I  have  passed  this  journey  through. 

And  3*et  I  have  one  slight  request, 
Just  one — when  I  am  laid  to  rest, — 

Nor  can  I  tell  the  reason  wiry, — 
Where  happy  youth  and  childhood  played, 
There  let  my  lifeless  dust  be  laid 

Beneath  the  azure  of  that  sky. 

It  must  be  that  the  singing  streams 
Which  mingled  with  my  childish  dreams, 

Would  murmur  soft  and  sweet  at  even, 
And  singing  birds  of  childhood's  morn, 
Would  sweeter  chant  at  early  dawn, 

As  the}7  went  singing  up  to  heaven. 

And  may  be  that  the  spirit's  ear, 
In  the  glad  morning  of  the  .year, 

When  gladness  fills  the  earth  and  sky, 
Would  listen,  as  of  old  it  heard 
The  mingled  songs  of  brook  and  bird, 

And  bear  the  melody  on  high. 


E. 

For  several  years  Mr.  Hosmer  \vas  a  resident  of  Nashua.  He  was  esteemed  as  a 
teacher  of  music  and  a  composer  of  much  promise.  Rewrote  the  words  and  mu 
sic  of  a  large  number  of  pieces  which  were  well  received  by  the  public.  He  died  in 
Kansas  City,  Mo.,  in  July,  1855,  while  on  a  western  trip.  He  was  born  about  1825. 


308  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

O  GIVE  ME  A  HOME  BY  THE    SKA. 

O  give  me  a  home  by  the  sea, 

Where  wild  waves  are  crested  witli  foarn. 
Where  shrill  winds  are  caroling  free, 

As  o'er  the  blue  waters  they  come, 
For  I'd  list  to  the  ocean's  loud  roar, 

And  joy  in  its  stormiest  glee, 
Nor  ask  in  this  wide  world  for  more 

Than  a  home  by  the  deep  heaving  sea; 

At  morn  when  the  sun  from  the  east 

Comes  mantled  in  crimson  and  gold, 
Whose  hues  on  the  billows  are  cast, 

Which  sparkle  with  splendor  untold, 
O  then  by  the  shore  would  I  stray, 

And  roam  as  the  halcyon  free, 
From  envy  and  care  far  away, 

At  my  home  by  the  deep  heaving  sea  ! 

At  eve  when  the  moon  in  her  pride 

Rides  queen  of  the  sort  summer  night, 
And  gleams  on  the  murmuring  tide, 

With  floods  of  her  silvery  light, — 
O  earth  has  no  beauty  so  rare, 

No  place  that  is  dearer  to  me, 
Then  give  me,  so  free  and  so  fair, 

A  home  by  the  deep  heaving  sea ! 


REMEMBER  ME. 

When  morn  its  beam  is  flinging 

On  budding  flower  and  tree, 
When  birds  are  gaily  singing, 

O  then  remember  me. 
When  all  is  bright  above  thee, 

And  soars  thy  spirit  free, 
()  think  of  those  who  love  thee, 

O  then  remember  me. 

Wrhen  evening  shades  are  creeping 

Along  the  dusky  lea, 
When  silent  dews  are  weeping, 

O  then  remember  me. 
And  when  thy  heart  is  lonely, 

And  sad  th}*  musings  be, 
Then  think  upon  me  only, 

O  then  remember  me. 


AMOS  B.  E  USSELL.  309 

When  soft  the  moon  is  beaming 

O'er  quiet  land  and  sea  ; 
I'd  have  thee,  gently  dreaming, 

O  then  remember  me. 
And  thus,  when  morn  brings  gladness, 

Or  evening  bids  it  flee, 
In  hours  of  joj",  or  sadness, 

O  then  remember  me. 


Emos  13.  Russell. 

Rev.  Amos  B.  Russell,  a  clergyman  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  was  boru 
in  Woodstock,  February  24,  1825.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  but  nine  months 
old.  He  entered  the  ministry  at  the  age  of  30  years,  and  at  that  time  began  to  write 
miscellaneous  articles  for  the  press.  His  poems  have  been  published  from  time 
to  time,  and  if  collected  would  make  a  volume. 


MY  BORDER  LAND. 

On  the  outer  verge  of  life's  dark  strand 
'Neath  the  azure  sky  of  a  sunlit  day, 
I  stand  and  behold  not  far  away, 
The  beautiful  shores  of  my  border  land. 

I  watch  the  gleams  of  its  golden  sand, 
Its  hills  and  vales  by  faith  I  see  ; 
Whose  ravishing  charms  are  a  joy  to  me, 
And  I  love  my  beautiful  border  land. 

What  lieth  beyond  my  border  land  ? 
Is  the  Eden  of  blessedness  far  away? 
I  list,  while  the  white  winged  seraphs  say 
}-  home  is  beyond  the  border  land." 


I  take  my  chart  and  staff  in  hand, 
Inspired  by  a  hope  of  ecstatic  jo}', 
While  rapturous  thoughts  my  mind  employ 
And  go  in  quest  of  my  border  land. 


AD  ASTRA. 

The  shadows  gather  round  my  feet, 
And  lengthen  o'er  the  grassy  vale, 
While  clouds  are  slowly  on  retreat, 
And  hushed  to  stillness  is  the  gale. 

Awhile  I  see  the  full  orbed  moon, 
Just  peering  from  behind  a  cloud, 


8 1 0  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  mourn  because  her  light  so  soon, 
Will  hide  behind  another  cloud. 

An  angel  of  the  night  appears, 
And  sets  the  starry  lamps  ablaze, 
And  now  devoid  of  hopes  and  fears 
I  muse  upon  their  twinkling  rays. 

I  gaze  up  into  heaven  afar, 

At  brilliant  orbs  remote  and  near, 

And  wonder  if  my  guiding  star 

In  all  the  train  shines  bright  and  clear. 

I  wonder  if  the  form  of  clay, 
Which  grovels  in  this  realm  of  night, 
Will  shine  at  last  with  heavenly  ray, 
As  seraphs  in  a  world  of  light. 


MY  MOTHER. 

Oft  was  I  told  when  but  a  thoughtless  child 
About  my  mother,  how  she  sang  and  smiled, 
Her  raven  tresses,  and  her  radiant  eye, 
Till  fell  consumption  laid  her  down  to  die. 

I  fain  would  had  to  check  my  wayward  youth 
Her  faithful  counsel,  and  her  kind  reproof; 
This  admonition  I  was  then  denied, 
For  e'er  my  thoughts  awoke  my  mother  died. 

My  thoughts  now  stray  to  where   the  willow  weeps. 
To  where  my  long  lost  mother  gently  sleeps ; 
Though  in  the  ground  is  nought  but  common  dust, 
Her  wakeful  spirit  mingles  with  the  just. 

And  shall  I  in  that  bright  celestial  world 
My  mother  meet?  her  saintly  form  behold? 
Aye,  shall  I  greet  her  near  the  eternal  throne, 
And  know  her  who  on  earth  I  ne'er  have  known  ? 


ANCHORED. 

The  sea  was  rough,  the  storm  was  loud, 
The  night  set  in  and  all  was  dark  ; 
Huge  waves  enfolded  like  a  shroud 
My  rudely  driven  and  helpless  bark. 


WILLIAM  STARK.  3 1 1 


Blast  after  blast  bore  down  with  speed, 
From  Arctic  skies  the  storm  was  driven  ; 
It  was  a  time  of  fear  and  need, 
For  my  fond  hope  was  nearly  riven. 

Wave  after  wave  would  lave  the  sides 
Of  the  frail  craft  in  which  I  rode  ; 
Again  returning  came  the  tides 
Lashing  the  walls  of  my  abode. 

Adrifted  on  the  angry  sea, 
As  drifts  a  withered  autumn  leaf; 
The  wailing  winds  spake  wrath  to  me, 
Filling  my  heart  with  bitter  grief. 

My  bark  came  o'er  the  harbor  bar, 
And  then  I  reefed  the  tattered  sail ; 
I  saw  above  the  morning  star  ; 
My  anchor  dropped  and  stood  the  gale. 


g>tarfe. 


William  Stark  was  born  in  Manchester,  July  16, 1825.  He  was  admitted  to  Phillips 
Academy,  Andover,  Mass.,  in  1S43;  entered  Williams  College  in  1846  and  graduated 
from  the  same  in  1850;  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  New  York  in  1851,  and  in  1853  re 
moved  to  Manchester,  where  he  followed  the  legal  profession  until  a  short  time 
previous  to  his  death.  His  literary  abilities  were  of  a  high  order,  and  had  he  lived 
to  develop  his  powers  in  this  direction  he  might  have  attained  great  distinction. 
He  was  a  student  of  natural  history,  and  at  one  time  possessed  a -park  containing  a 
large  collection  of  foreign  and  domestic  birds  and  animals,  which  was  ever  open 
for  the  amusement  of  the  public.  He  was  a  great-grandson  of  Major  John  Stark. 
He  died  October  29, 1873. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  CENTENNIAL  POEM. 

Delivered  at  Manchester,  October  22, 1851. 

So  let  us  unite  as  we  gather  here 

On  the  safe  return  of  a  hundreth  year, 

In  a  hasty  search  with  a  curious  eye, 

O'er  the  record  book,  of  the  days  gone  by. 

From  the  letters  old,  on  its  mouldy  page 

We  may  draw  some  good  for  the  coming  age. 

Our  fishermen  were  of  a  sturdy  race, 

Who  had  this  spot  for  their  dwelling  place, 

On  the  slimy  rock  by  the  water  side, 

Or  the  jutting  peak  in  the  foaming  tide, 

Where  the  lordly  salmon  wildly  leapt 

O'er  the  lofty  rock,  where  the  waters  swept ; 

And  the  shad  with  the  flash  of  his  silver  side, 


.-J12  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMP8I11UK. 


With  the  alewife,  sculled  in  the  foaming  tide 
Mid  the  wat'ry  spray  and  the  snowy  foam. 
'Mong  the  raging  waves,  was  the  fisher's  home  ; 
And  he  loved  to  stand  on  the  slippery  rock 
Which  had  stood,  through  time,  the  water's  shock- 
In  the  foaming  waves,  below,  to  feel, 
With. an  iron  crook,  for  the  squirming  eel. 

In  my  boyhood  days  upon  eels  I  fed, 
And,  as  now  to  you,  is  the  banquet  spread, 
Of  such  simple  food  as  the  past  reveals, 
I  invite  you  now  to  a  dish  of  eels. 

O'er  every  land,  and  in  every  age, 
By  the  high  and  low,  by  the  fool  and  sage, 
For  the  dainty  eel,  has  been  left  a  space 
At  the  festive  board,  an  honored  place. 

When  the  Roman  consul  gave  his  feast, 

Of  the  rarest  kind  of  bird  and  beast, 

'T would  have  seemed  to  him  but  a  scanty  meal 

Had  he  failed  to  supply  the  dainty  eel. 

Great  Flaccus  doffed  his  raiment  of  pride, 
And  in  sackcloth  mourned  for  an  eel  that  died  ; 
And  with  keenest  pang  that  the  heart  can  feel, 
Horatius  wept  for  a  squirming  eel ; 
And  higher  still  in  the  list  of  fame, 
I'll  point  to  the  royal  Henry's  name, 
Who  died  as  history's  page  reveals, 
A  martyred  soul  to  the  cause  of  eels  ! 

Our  fathers  treasured  the  slimy  prize, 
And  they  loved  the  eel  as  their  veiy  eyes ; 
From  these,  the}'  formed  their  food  in  chief, 
And  eels  were  known  as  "Derryfield  beef." 
The  marks  of  eels  were  plain  to  trace 
In  the  children's  gait,  in  the  children's  face, 
For  before  they  walked,  it  is  well  confirmed 
That  the  children  never  crept,  but  squirmed. 

Such  a  might}'  power,  did  the  squirmers  wield 

O'er  the  goodl}'  men  of  old  Derryfield, 

It  was  sometimes  said  that  their  onl}'  care, 

Their  only  wish,  and  their  only  prayer, 

For  the  present  world,  and  the  world  to  come, 

Was  a  string  of  eels,  and  a  jug  of  rum. 


ALB  ON  H.  BAILE  T.  313 

P^nough  of  this, — for  no  true  heart  desires, 

To  mark  the  failings  of  our  noble  sires  ; — 

From  little  follies,  though  but  seldom  free 

Of  grosser  vices,  the}-  had  less  than  we. 

Their  deeds  of  honor,  are  by  far  too  high, 

To  feel  the  lash  of  scorn  and  ribaldry  ; 

For  every  field  which  drank  the  patriot's  blood, 

Has  tasted  theirs, — the  freest  of  the  flood. 

Yet  while  we  point,  with  proudly  swelling  eye, 

To  Bunker's  column,  towering  to  the  sky  ; 

And  while  we  boast,  the  noble  blood  the}'  shed, 

Till  Concord's  plains  blushed  with  the  gory  red, 

They  have  their  glory, — it  is  theirs  alone  ; 

We  too  have  ours,  and  we,  too,  claim  our  own. 

The  present  age,  each  heart  will  own  as  true, 

With  all  its  follies,  has  its  virtues  too. 

Where'er  a  schoolhouse  dots  the  village  green, 

Where'er  a  church  spire  charms  the  rural  scene, 

There  stands  a  monument  our  pride  to  fill, 

No  less  than  that  which  towers  on  Bunker  Hill.          • 

Where  Christian  people  to  the  altar  wend, 

Where  happy  children  o'er  their  lessons  bend, 

Where  iron  horses  whistle  o'er  the  land, 

Where  crowded  cities  rise  on  barren  sand, 

Where  captured  rivers  feed  our  monster  mills, 

There  are  our  "Concords,"  there,  our  "Bunker  Hills." 


.  Baileg. 


A.  H.  Bailey  is  a  native  of  Unity.  He  has  been  connected  with  printing  since  his 
boyhood;  was  a  compositor  on  the  Courier,  printed  in  Concord,  aud  on  the  White 
Mountain  ^Egis,  in  Haverhill.  He  was  afterwards  co-publisher  of  the  first  men 
tioned  paper;  publisher  of  the  Boston  Daily  Sun;  Court  reporter  for  the  Boston 
Morning  Chronicle,  Boston  Daily  Mail,  Boston  Chronotype,  and  Boston  Transcript. 


THE  VILLAGE  BELLS. 

The  village  bells,  the  village  bells,  how  joyfully  they  peal ! 
Casting  a  mellow  music  round,  the  wounded  heart  to  heal. 
The}'  break  the  melancholy  spell  made  by  the  dismal  night, 
And  wake  the  weary  slumberer  at  earliest  dawn  of  light. 

They  ope  the  portals  of  the  day  with  glad'ning,  happy  sounds, 
Inviting  earnest  labor  back  to  cheerful  duty-rounds  ; 
And  when  in  noontide's  fervid  heat  they  call  the  toiler  home, 
How  gladly  then  he  seeks  retreat  from  nature's  heated  dome. 


314  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  evening's  peaceful  vesper  hour  renews  their  cheerful  lays, 
How  then  incline  all  grateful  hearts  to  join  in  tuneful  praise  ; 
How  then  as  each  successive  note  rises  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Man's  very  spirit  seems  imbued  with  pure  and  holy  leaven. 

When  night  her  curtain  draws  around,  and  e'en  the  chimes  have 

rest, 

Life's  aspirations  then  arise  to  regions  of  the  blest. 
Then  let  the  tuneful  village  bells  still  sound  upon  the  air — 
At  early  dawn,  at  sultry  noon,  at  hour  of  evening  prayer. 

There's  more  than  music  in  the  bells,  a  lesson  in  each  tone, 
Reminds  us  all  that  our  abode  is  not  on  earth  alone  ; 
But  that  our  spirits  may  ascend,  e'en  as  those  notes  arise, 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this  beyond  the  distant  skies. 


TO  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

Hail !  proud,  historic  pile,  Hail !  noble  monument, 

O'er-looking  Freedom's  soil,       Reared  on  the  battlement 

Recalling,  as  time  rolls,  Of  glorious  Liberty ! 

The  days  that  tried  men's  souls,  Thou'lt  tell  through  coming  time 

A  century  ago  ;  The  sons  of  every  clime, 

When  war-clouds  o'er  them  hung  A  wondrous  history, 

And  hearts  with  woe  were  wrung  Glad'ning  the  old  and  }roung 

By  a  tyrannic  foe.  Of  every  race  and  tongue, 

Yea,  millions  yet  to  be. 
Thou  tell'st  of  those  who  bled, 

The  honored,  mighty  dead 

That  slumber  at  thy  base,  £rom  thf ,  inspiring  shaft 

When  on  yon  chosen  height,  ™,e  wmds  sljf U  «  adl~v  waft 

In  sanguinary  fight,  °  her  than  V11?.  tales  ?  f . 

Each  dauntless  held  his  place,  ™e  w°rld  sl^a11   ea™    he  mi£ht 

Amid  the  cannon's  roar,  °J  souls  made  8tr?nS  b?  r'ght' 

Until  the  vale  below  When  wronS  assails' 

Was  reddened  with  the  flow, 

And  slimed  with  foreign  gore.  O,  may'st  thou  ever  stand 

A  bulwark  to  the  land, 

Thou  tell'st  of  contest  long,  While  oceans  round  it  roll ; 

Re-told  in  tale  and  song,  May  North  and  South  uphold 

And  proud  historic  page,  Our  heritage  of  old  ; 

How  Freedom,  sore  beset,  From  East  to  farthest  West, 

The  tyrant  foeman  met,  May  Freedom's  home  be  blest, 

In  the  tumult  of  war ;  And  every  freeman's  soul 

Which,  at  its  direful  close,  Behold  in  thce  a  sign 

Left  thousands  to  repose.  Of  one,  whose  hand  divine, 

With  their  grand  labors  o'er.  Shall  keep  it  whole. 


JUSTIN  E,   WALKEE.  315 

Justin  15. 

J.  E.  Walker  was  born  in  Fairfax,  Vt ,  Sept.  12,  1825.  At  the  age  of  twenty 
years  he  went  to  Johnson,  in  the  same  State,  and  attended  the  academy  nearly  two 
vears.  He  then  went  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  where  he  remained  six  or  seven  years. 
^There  he  lost  the  use  of  his  right  eye  by  an  accident  while  working  at  a  circular 
saw.  In  1858  he  removed  to  Nashua  and  has  resided  there  since  then.  He  had  but 
little  time  to  devote  to  literature,  or  anything  else  except  unremitting  toil,  until 
about  1874  when  he  commenced  writing. 


TRUST  IN  GOD. 

If  storms  arise  on  life's  rough  sea, 
And  angry  billows  toss  my  bark ; 
If  friends  desert,  and  turn  from  me, 
And  everything  seems  drear  and  dark ; 
Still,  on  my  bended  knees  I'll  cry 
For  strength  to  bear,  whate'er  I  must ; 
And  on  his  promise  I'll  rely, 
And  in  ray  God,  have  perfect  trust. 

If  want  should  stare  me  in  the  face, 
And  hunger's  bitter  pang  be  felt; 
And  if  to  rest,  1  have  no  place, 
And  naught  to  me  in  kindness  dealt; 
Yet  simply  to  his  cross  I'll  cling, 
And  own  his  dealings  are  but  just ; 
And  to  his  praise  I'll  ever  sing, 
And  in  his  word  have  perfect  trust. 

And  when  with  age  my  form  is  bent, 
And  wrinkles  gather  on  my  face, 
When  silver  locks  in  time  are  sent, 
With  feeble  limbs  and  faltering  pace, 
Still,  in  sweet  pra3'er  I'll  lift  my  voice 
To  Him,  who  formed  me  from  the  dust, 
And  in  his  name  will  I  rejoice, 
And  in  his  love  have  perfect  trust. 

When  husky  tones,  and  trembling  hand, 
With  hollow  cheek,  and  sunken  eye, 
Proclaims  to  me  life's  ebbing  sand, 
And  warn  me  that  my  end  is  nigh  ; 
Still,  I  will  put  ni}-  trust  in  Him 
Who  notes  the  sparrow  when  it  falls ; 
And  though  mine  eyes  are  weak  and  dim', 
I'll  know  his  voice,  when  Jesus  calls. 

And  when  at  last  he  bids  me  come, 
And  rends  the  brittle  thread  of  life, 


: !  1 1 ;  POE  T8  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 

I'll  fly  to  my  eternal  home 
In  realms  unknown  to  want  and  strife. 
To  sin  and  suffering  then  farewell ; 
Farewell,  the  rugged  paths  I've  trod  ; 
For  with  my  Saviour  I  shall  dwell, 
And  trust  forever  in  my  God. 


A  THREE  FOLD  ASPECT. 

Flowers  that  bloom  in  ever}*  field, 
And  even  to  the  wayside  stray, 
And  fragrance  of  rich  odor  yield,- 
To  cheer  the  weary  traveller's  way, 
Are  often  trodden  under  foot, 
By  thoughtless  youth,  and  careless  men 
But  if  they've  firmly  taken  root, 
They'll  spring  to  life,  and  bloom  again. 

So  men  who  journey  life's  rough  way, 
And  scatter  blessings  as  they  go ; 
Who  seek  to  rescue  those  who  stray, 
And  fain  would  share  another's  woe  ; 
Are  often  crushed  beneath  the  heel 
Of  selfish  and  unfeeling  men  ; 
But  if  within,  true  Christian  zeal 
Has  taken  root,  they'll  rise  again. 

Insects  that  flutter  round  the  gas, 
Are  lured  by  the  dazzling  light ; 
Its  burning  element,  alas  ! 
Is  wholly  hidden  from  their  sight. 
They  feel  the  pain  the  illusion  brings, 
Yet  from  the  danger  do  not  fly, 
Till  they  have  lost  their  tin}-  wings ; 
Then  fall  to  earth,  and  droop,  and  die. 

And  so  with  men  ;  the  social  glass, 
That  deathless  foe  of  Adam's  race  — 
With  winning  smile,  beguiles  alas ! 
Our  noblest  men  to  its  embrace. 
The}'  feel  its  fangs,  its  deadly  stings, 
Yet  to  escape  they  do  not  try, 
Till  they  become  but  loathsome  things 
Unfit  to  live  ;  then  drink  and  die. 

Had  I  a  voice  like  clarion  note 
To  speak  the  language  of  my  soul, 


ASENATH  C.  STICKNEY. 


Then  all  my  life  would  I  devote, 
To  crying  down  the  social  bowl. 
The  illusion  past,  it  leaves  a  scar, 
More  ghastly  than  the  surgeon's  knife  ; 
While  all  our  happiness  'twill  mar, 
And  give  us  but  a  wasted  life. 

The  bird  that  flutters  from  its  nest, 
And  thinks  to  fly  like  those  around, 
With  broken  wing  and  bleeding  breast, 
Will  soon  lie  prostrate  on  the  ground. 
Its  mates  may  bind  the  broken  wing, 
With  tender  care  preserve  its  life, 
'Twill  always  be  a  crippled  thing, 
Unfit  to  share  in  noble  strife. 

So  boys  who  learn  to  smoke  and  drink, 
And  think  'tis  man!}-,  noble,  grand, 
Below  the  brute  ere  long  will  sink, 
Greeted  with  jeers  on  every  hand. 
Kind  friends  may  strive  to  lift  them  up 
And  make  them  stand  erect  like  men, 
And  they  may  dash  away  the  cup, 
But  are  they  what  they  might  have  been  ? 


This  writer  was  born  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  January  25, 1826.  She  was  placed 
in  a  Shaker  Society  when  five  years  of  age,  and  bred  and  educated  therein.  Since 
her  minority  she  has  taught  the  District  School,  No.  8,  in  the  town  of  Canterbury, 
about  twenty-five  terms,  during  which  time  the  Superintending  School  Committee 
of  the  town  has  given,  of  her  school,  a  very  creditable  report. 


WORDS  OF  MY  SAVIOUR. 

How  holy  and  how  beautiful, 

The  sayings  of  our  Lord  ; 
How  clothed  in  grace  and  dignity, 

Is  each  inspired  word  ; 
They  are  to  me  as  golden  fruit, 

In  silver  pictures  set ; 
Like  music  which  the  finite  voice, 

Can  never  counterfeit. 

Though  uttered  ages  long  ago, 
They  still  retain  the  power 

To  cheer  the  weary  soul,  and  throw 
Light  o'er  each  adverse  hour ; 


318  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  countless  they  who,  ages  hence, 
Shall  sing  and  speak  the  praise, 

Which  fills  the  heart,  and  moves  the  lips, 
Of  saints  in  latter  days. 


UNIVERSAL  LOVE. 

Blest  be  that  universal  love, 

For  which  the  Christian  aims  ; 
Whose  source  in  God  is  found  above 

All  narrow  human  claims. 
As  towers  the  loft}"  mountain  top 

Above  the  distant  sea, 
So  stands  the  merits  of  this  love 

In  its  divinity. 

Be  lifted  up,  O  virgin  throng, 

With  open  hearts  embrace 
The  principle  which  purifies, 

And  elevates  the  race  ; 
The  love  which  seeks  the  good  of  all, 

In  ev'ry  land  and  clime  ; 
Which  vitalizes,  cheers,  forgives, 

And  renders  life  sublime. 


SSUjitesttme 

E.  W.  Wooddell  is  a  native  ofWashington  County,  New  York,  where  he  was  edu 
cated  and  became  a  lawyer.  After  practising  his  profession  for  some  years  in  that 
State  he  removed  to  Olaremont.  A  pulmonary  disease  and  a  loss  of  voice  ha\v 
obliged  him  to  abandon  the  practice  of  law.  He  resides  in  Unity  and  has  turned 
his  attention  in  part  to  literature. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

'Tis  many  long  decades  since  once  those  seers 
Were  plodding  onward  towards  the  radiant  west, 

To  see  the  Promised  of  a  thousand  }'ears, 

In  whom  'twas  said,  all  nations  should  be  blest. 

And  scoffers  then  as  now  were  constant  seen, 

Who  mocked  at  every  good,  and  railed  with  scorn 

And  making  merry  at  the  thought  I  ween, 

That  He,  so  long  foretold,  should  now  be  born. 

But  onward  still  along  that  rugged  road 

The  wise  men  urged  their  slo\v  and  weary  way  ; 

A  blazing  star  made  known  the  rude  abode 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Life  and  Glory  lay. 


FEEDERIC  A.  MOORE.  319 

Such  an  abode  !  ah,  who  would  think  it  meet 
For  child  of  earth,  in  which  to  see  the  light ; 

Yet  angels  from  the  throne,  come  down  to  greet 
The  new-born  babe  with  anthems  of  delight. 

Shepherds  beheld  and  wondered  at  the  scene, 
The  like  of  which  had  never  been  on  earth ; 

Celestial  torches  lighted  all  the  green, 
In  confirmation  of  a  Saviour's  birth. 

Could  wise  men  doubt  of  what  was  there  revealed  ! 

Na}T,  all  misgivings  must  forever  cease  ; 
The  Prophets  by  the  hand  of  God  were  sealed, 

And  in  our  world  appeared  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

Down  through  the  centuries  that  since  have  passed, 

The  wise  have  on  the  Nazarine  believed  ; 
The  stricken  poor  their  griefs  have  on  him  cast, 

And  gained  rewards  that  mind  had  ne'er  conceived. 

Still  let  us  see  through  fogs  and  mists  of  earth 
The  glittering  star,  as  did  the  seers  of  old  ; 

A  harbinger  that  points  a  Saviour's  birth, 
And  in  his  cause  be  faithful,  true,  and  bold. 


jFretretic  &.  J&oore. 


F.  A.  Moore  was  born  In  Bristol,  February  11, 1826.  He  was  educated  at  Hebron 
and  New  Hampton  academies ;  studied  law  in  Manchester,  but  in  fact  studied 
Emerson,  Carlyle  and  Horace  Greeley  more  than  Blackstone;  became  a  journalist; 
was  the  first  editor  of  the  Manchester  Daily  Mirror  in  1851.  He  went  to  Springfield, 
111.,  in  1852  and  was  connected  there  with  the  Daily  Journal.  His  next  move  was  to 
La  Crosse,  Wis.,  in  1854,  where  he  was  an  editor  eight  years.  In  short  he  has  been 
ajournalist  for  about  thirty  years.  For  the  past  nine  years  Jie  has  resided  in 
Washington,  D.C.,  a  part  of  the  time  off  on  special  Indian  commission  business.  He 
has  drawn  "third  prize  in  matrimonial  lottery,"  despite  of  "bachelor  proclamation." 
In  1850  he  compiled  "The  Book  of  Gems;  a  gift  for  all  Seasons." 


THE  BACHELOR'S  SONG. 

A  single  life's  the  life  for  me, 

Bright  sunny  isles  are  there  ; 
I'll  dash  wide  o'er  its  bounding  sea, 

Nor  love  nor  hate  the  fair. 
With  fearless  heart  and  manly  pride, 

Against  the  surging  strife, 
My  peaceful  bark  will  gallant  ride, 

Untroubled  with  a  wife. 

Who  tamely  lets  a  woman's  art 
His  foolish  heart  iuthrall, 


320  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Will  surely  learn,  too  late,  alas, 
That  love's  a  humbug  all ! 

'Tis  all  a  cheat,  a  lie,  a  show, 
To  trap  poor  sill}'  men — 

Old  maids  to  Bedlam  all  may  go, 
And  ne'er  come  back  again  ! 

In  manhood's  prime  'tis  downright  sin 

To  run  such  odds  for  life  ; 
Mid  countless  blanks,  to  only  win 

A  useless,  worthless  wife  ; 
And  when,  by  fate  or  fortune  blest, 

Which  would  indeed  be  worse, 
The  painted,  bauble  prize,  at  best, 

May  prove  a  splendid  curse. 

A  wife's  a  pearl  of  tempting  hue, 

But  stormy  waves  are  round  it, 
And  dearby  will  a  mortal  rue 

The  day  when  first  he  found  it. 
If  all  her  locks  were  gleaming  gold, 

Where  gems  like  dewdrops  fall, 
One  passing  hour  of  life,  free-souled, 

Were  sweetly  worth  them  all. 

The  bird  that  wi'ngs  the  sunny  sky, 

To  greet  the  rosy  morn, — 
The  stag  that  scales  the  mountain  high, 

When  rings  the  hunter's  horn — 
When  he  shall  seek  the  crowded  plain, 

Or  birds  their  prison-cage, 
Then  I'll  be  bound  in  Hymen's  chain, 

To  bless  a  future  age. 


J.  E.  Hood  was  born  In  1826,  and  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1841.  He 
was  for  many  years  editor  of  an  anti-slavery  paper  in  Concord,  and  afterwards  for 
a  long  time  was  employed  as  journalist  on  the  Springfield  (Mass.)  Kffiuhlican. 
He  died  in  1871. 


WHITE  RIVER. 

Thou  hast  not  majesty  ;  no  navies  ride 
Upon  thy  tranquil  bosom,  bearing  on 
The  weight  of  luxury  from  distant  climes. 
Thou  dost  not  heave  a  flood  of  water  down 


GEOEGE  PATN  QUACKENBOS.  321 

To  shake  the  frightened  earth.     No  poet's  song 
Has  made  thy  name  immortal  as  his  own. 
Yet  art  thou  fair  ;  crystal  the  waters  flow 
From  out  thy  mountain  springs,  and  hasten  on 
Unmingled  with  a  taint  of  earthly  mould, 
But  white  and  pearly  as  the  dew  at  dawn, 
Transparent  as  the  good  man's  sympathies, 
And  open  as  the  guileless  soul  of  j'outh. 
I  love  thy  purity.     The  sunbeams  pierce 
And  mingle  with  thy  depths,  and  dwell  in  thee, 
As  truth  transfuses  the  ingenuous  soul, 
Lessons  of  simple  verity  and  love 
I've  garnered  from  thee.     Quietly  flow  on, 
Fameless  White  River,  bringing  purest  thoughts, 
Unto  the  happy  dwellers  on  thy  banks. 
If  I  may  never  visit  thee  again 
To  be  inspired  by  thy  low  melody, 
Yet  still  flow  on  ;  for  there  are  those  I  love,        • 
Because  translucent  and  sincere,  like  thee, 
Who  see  thee  still  at  sunrise,  and  at  noon, 
And  when  the  moon  upon  thy  bosom  rests ; 
They  gaze  in  silence,  and — they  ask  not  why — 
A  soft  tranquillity,  half  sad,  half  sweet, 
With  far  off  gleamings  of  a  spirit  light 
In  the  deep  soul,  at  thy  suggestion  comes. 
Be  their  life  genuine  and  pure  like  thine, 
A  living  fount,  a  tranquil,  ceaseless  stream 
Of  kind  and  holy  deeds,  reflecting  heaven. 


<®uacfteni)os. 


G.  P.  Qnackenbos,  LL.D.  ,  was  born  in  New  York  city  in  1826.  He  received  a 
collegiate  education  and  became  principal  of  Henry  St.  Grammar  School  in  his 
native  city.  In  July,  1848,  he  started  a  literary  journal,  The  Literary  American,  and 
was  publisher  and  editor,  at  the  same  time  continuing  his  connection  with  the 
Grammar  School.  The  American  was  published  weekly  for  two  years,  when  it 
was  merged  into  another  publication.  Few  literary  papers  in  this  country  have 
possessed  such  literary  merit  as  did  the  American  under  Mr.  Quackenbos'  manage 
ment.  For  about  twelve  years  this  poet,  orator  and  well  known  author  of  various 
school  books,  made  his  residence  in  the  summer  and  autumn  in  New  London,  and 
there,  at  his  home  near  the  Lake  Sunapee,  devoted  himself  with  untiring  zeal  to 
literary  labor.  His  death,  the  result  of  an  accident,  the  overturning  of  his  carriage 
which  precipitated  himself  and  his  wife  from  a  bridge  while  crossing  a  stream, 
occurred  in  New  London,  July  24,  1881. 


MY  SOUL'S  SONG. 

Oh  !  beautiful  'tis,  when  the  morn  is  awaking, 
To  see  the  first  sunbeam  the  ocean  forsaking ; 
To  see  a  thin  streamlet  of  golden  light  glowing, 
Into  rivers,  and  rivers  of  radiance  flowing  ; 


;}22  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

To  list  to  the  murmur  of  nature's  low  voices, 
To  listen,  while  earth  and  the  heaven  rejoices. 

More  beautiful  still,  at  the  falling  of  even, 

To  see  the  still  earth,  and  to  see  the  still  heaven  ; 

To  look  on  the  moon,  as  she  rises  so  lightly  ; 

To  note  the  mute  stars,  as  they  glimmer  so  brightly  ; 

To  gaze  on  creation  so  silently  sleeping, 

And  see  the  light  sparkles  that  evening  is  weeping ! 

Oh,  beautiful  then  is  the  slow-gliding  river, 

As  its  waves  in  the  arms  of  the  night-breezes  shiver ; 

And  again  to  the  stars  fling  their  silvery  glances, 

As  on  its  smooth  surface  their  brilliancy  dances  ; 

Oh,  beautiful  ever,  at  falling  of  even, 

The  sweetness  of  earth,  and  the  silence  of  heaven  ! 

But,  my  soul,  oh  !  why  of  the  beautiful  singing  ? 

Thy  fingers  why  o'er  thy  harp  art  thou  flinging  ? 

Say,  canst  thou  drink  in  the  soft  rays  of  the  morning? 

Is  thine  the  bright  gold,  that  the  sky  is  adorning  ? 

Canst  thou  e'er  interpret  creation's  low  voices, 

Or  tell  what  the  earth  says,  when  loud  she  rejoices? 

Or  tell  me,  my  soul,  at  the  falling  of  even, 
For  thee  is  the  earth  still,  for  thee  is  the  heaven  ? 
Dost  thou  know  what  the  moon  is,  in  purity  beaming? 
Canst  fly  to  the  planets  !     Oh  !  why  art  thou  dreaming? 
There  are  fetters  of  iron  on  th}r  fluttering  pinions  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  up  to  the  angels'  dominions. 

How  long  will  the  river  glide  on  in  its  brightness? 

How  long  will  its  waters  go  rippling  in  lightness  ? 

Ah !  every  bright  thing  that  thou  seest  decayeth, 

Nor  long  as  the  sound  of  thy  melodj7  stayeth. 

Ah !  know,  tho'  the  harp-strings  sound  ga}r  'neath  thy  fingers, 

A  breath  of  decay  on  each  lovely  thing  lingers. 

Then  no  more  strike  thy  harp,  but  be  silent  in  sorrow  ; 
The  rose  that  is  sweetest  to-da}7,  dies  to-morrow. 
The  chains  of  this  earth,  have  unpitying,  bound  thee  ; 
Thou  ne'er  canst  soar  freely,  while  the}-  are  around  thee  ; 
And  ne'er  till  thou  feelest  the  balm-breath  of  heaven, 
Eternal  the  beauties  of  morn,  or  of  even. 


THE  ROSE. 

When  Venus,  from  the  foaming  spray, 
Sprang  lightly  upon  Delos'  iale, 


GEOEGE  PAYN  QUACKENB08.  323 

The  earth,  in  vain,  upon  her  flowers 

Looked  round  to  find  as  sweet  a  smile  ; 
Not  one  was  as  the  goddess  fair, 
Not  one  could  with  her  charms  compare. 

Earth  grieved  to  see  her  own  surpassed, 
And  looked  once  more — quick  on  her  view 

Burst  forth  the  rose,  voluptuous 
In  her  thin  dress  of  crystal  dew. 

No  more  she  grieved  ;  the  mother  smiled, 

As  she  beheld  her  loveliest  child. 

The  rose  is  beauty's  cherished  flower ; 

Peeps  out  from  her  soft  golden  hair, 
Plays  lightl}'  o'er  her  rounded  cheek, 

And  flings  her  own  bright  blushes  there  : 
Then  on  her  sweet  lips,  wearied,  lies, 
And  drinks  her  smiles,  and  drinks  her  sighs. 

She  is  the  darling  child  of  May, 

Who  folds  her  fondly  in  her  arms, 
And  pauses  on  her  velvet  way, 

To  veil  in  moss  her  rapturous  charms  ; 
Then  kisses  her  with  loving  eye, 
Nor  stays,  to  see  her  favorite  die. 

The  rose  is  sweet  at  morning-tide, 

When  heav3T  with  the  tears  of  night ; 
The  rose  is  sweet  at  evening  hour, 

When  o'er  it  pours  the  sunset  light. 
In  maiden's  hair,  in  maiden's  bower, 
The  rose  is  still  the  loveliest  flower. 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  TREE. 

There  was  a  verdant  little  spot, 

By  clustering  ivies  sweetly  shaded, 
Velveted  o'er  with  living  moss, 

And  lit  by  stars  that  never  faded. 
A  flower  in  the  sweet  spot  sprang  up, 

And  grew  until  its  bloom  was  bright ; 
Then,  in  its  prime,  it  sadly  drooped, 

And  closed  its  soft  leaves  on  the  light. 
A  poet  told  its  history,  as  he  passed  by  and  sighed  : 
"A  flower  sprang  up  amid  the  moss,  and  grew,  and  bloomed, 
and  died." 


324  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Ere  winter  forged  his  glittering  chains, 

Where  the  young  flower  had  drooped  its  head, 
Nature  another  child  brought  forth, 

And  nursed  it  on  the  same  soft  bed. 
It  grew,  and  as  the  j'ears  flew  by, 

New  strength  was  added,  beauty  given  ; 
Until,  a  mighty  tree,  its  top 

Was  mingled  with  the  grey  of  heaven. 

Again  the  poet  struck  his  lyre,  and  woods  and  groves  replied  : 
"For  ages  shall  the  tree  survive,  majestic  in  its  pride." 

That  mossy  cool  spot  is  my  heart, 

And  love,  the-  heaven-tinted  flower. 
It  grew,  it  bloomed,  then  withering,  died, 

And  passed  away,  in  one  brief  hour. 
Though  other  flowers  were  bright  and  sweet, 

The  beauty  of  the  scene  was  gone  ; 
Love  perished  ;  every  hope  was  dead  ; 

The  solemn  soul  was  left  alone.  [died  ; 

A  flower  sprang  up  amid  the  moss,  and  grew,  and  bloomed,  and 
Love  perished  in  a  youthful  heart,  and  all  was  dead  beside. 

But  soon  a  tree,  above  the  place, 

Shadowed  the  floweret's  quiet  grave  ; 
So  when  the  flowers  of  love  have  closed, 
The  leaves  of  friendship  kindly  wave  ; 
So  every  year  but  added  strength  ; 

The  frailer  love  hath  passed  forever — 
Less  bright,  but  more  enduring  far, 

The  bloom  of  friendship  withereth  never. 
Love  sprang  forth  in  a  passionate  heart,  it  grew,  and  bloomed. 

and  died  ; 
But  friendship's  tree  still  stately  waves,  majestic  in  its  pride. 


SONG  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

When  bright-eyed  Spring,  with  her  flowery  train, 

Comes  tripping  in  joy  o'er  the  naked  plain, 

To  scatter  her  favors  and  blessings  around, 

And  fling  her  smiles  on  the  frosted  ground, 

When  the  air  with  the  sweetness  of  blossoms  is  rife. 

And  the  sun  is  warm,  I  spring  to  life : 

A  beauteous  thing,  with  gossamer  wing, 

And  a  merry  song  to  the  rose  I  sing. 

And  still  as  Summer  comes  sweeping  along, 
I  shake  my  wing,  and  chatter  my  song ; 


GEOE  GE  PA  YN  Q  UA  CKENB08.  3  25 

And  hie  from  the  rose  to  the  lity's  breast, 
Or  make  in  the  woodbine  sweet  my  nest, 
Or  down  in  the  shade  the  violet  kiss. 

0  Summer  !  no  season's  as  happy  as  this ! 
All,  all  the  day,  on  my  pinions  ga}T, 

1  woo  the  bright  flowers  in  innocent  play. 

Now  Summer  is  gone,  and  the  autumn  gale 
From  the  hills  comes  sweeping  adown  the  vale, 
With  a  shiver  I  creep  this  bush  behind, 
Whose  moaning  leaves  chide  the  chilly  wind  : 
O,  where  can  I  go  to  keep  me  warm, 
To  hide  away  from  the  merciless  storm  ? 
O,  where  can  I  go?  for  the  cold  blasts  blow, 
And  the  clouds  hang  down  with  a  weight  of  snow. 

The  stars  look  dim  in  the  clouded  sky ; 

The  moon  hath  mantled  her  face  on  high ; 

O  where  is  the  sun  with  his  blessed  ray — 

The  rose,  on  whose  lovely  breast  I  lay? 

Gone,  gone  !  not  a  leaf  is  left  on  the  trees  ; 

Chill  Winter  is  coming — I  freeze,  I  freeze  !  • 

O,  I  cannot  fly  !  dim,  dim  is  mine  eye — 

My  heart  is  frozen — I  die,  I  die  ! 


THE  SPIRIT  AND  THE  BRIDE  SAY  "COME." 

Listen  !  far  from  Heaven  above  Leave  a  world  of  sinful  strife, 
Sounds  a  voice  of  holy  love  ;     Touch  the  healing  wave  of  life  ; 
He  who  speaks  in  thunder  loud,   Streams  of  mercy  flow  through 
Calls   the   lightning  from  the  Heaven, 

cloud,  To  the  weary  rest  is  given  : 

Now  in  accents  low  and  sweet  Sinner,  come  !" 

Bids  thee  to  the  mercy-seat ;        Let  the  words  of  mercv  roll 

"Mortal,  come  !  Round  the  earth)  from  pole  to 

In  no  and  desert  stay,  je  . 

Thou  art  thirsting— come  away  !  Let  each  'gratefui  mortal  say, 
Here  are  waters  ever  flowing,  uFellOw-sinner,  come  away  ! 
With  the  tints  of  glory  glowing:  Go  we  to  the  Saviour's  feet> 

Mortal,  come  !  Qo  we  to  fche  niercy-seat ; 

Listen  !  from  the  clouds  of  earth  Holy  Spirit, 

Breaks  a  sound  of  heav'nly  birth:  Humbly  we  thy  call  obey  ! 
Wounded  spirit  lend  thine  ear  ;    In  no  desert  will  we  stay  ; 
Troubled  soul, the  Bride  is  near  :  To  the  streams  with  glory  glow- 
Comfort  speaks  upon  her  voice —         ing, 
Broken  heart,  rejoice  !  rejoice  !   To  the  waters  freely  flowing, 

"Sinner,  come  !  Guide  us  Thou  !" 


326  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

j5amuel  J. 

8.  J.  Pike  was  a  native  of  Newbury,  Mass.,  born  April  23,  1828.  Ho  graduated  :it 
Kmvdoin  College  in  1847,  and  soon  after  went  to  Dover,  where  he  remained  four  or 
five  years.  It  was  while  a  resident  of  that  place  that  he  wrote  and  published  in 
the  New  York  Literary  American  several  poems  of  great  merit,  among  which  \\:i> 
"The  Better  Land."  From  Dover  he  went  to  New  York  and  was  employed  by 
Mason  and  Brothers  as  critic  and  translator.  He  delivered  orations  on  Connnciice- 
meut  and  other  occasions.  His  death  occurred  in  Boston,  November  6, 1861. 


STANZAS. 

Oh,  visions  rare  of  early  hours, 

That  softly  now  my  bosom  fill, 
Like  perfume  floating  from  the  flowers, 

Or  tones  that  tremulously  thrill 

From  lute  strings  jarred  and  quivering  still, 
Than  all  my  jo}*ance  fonder  far, 
How  delicate  and  dear  ye  are  ! 

Oh,  gleamings  of  a  sunny  face, 

That  lavished  once  its  smiles  on  me, 

Lithe  atoms  of  a  form  of  grace, 
That  I  no  more  may  hope  to  see ; 
Faint  echoes  of  the  melody 

Of  lips,  where  sleep  and  silence  reign, 

How  throng  ye  round  iny  soul  again. 

Oh,  memories  of  a  starry  night, 
Of  paths  with  dew}r  buds  bestrewn, 

And  fragrant  breezes  moist  and  light, 
Loaded  with  breath  of  hay  new-mown  ; 
Of  white  hands  trembling  in  my  own, 

Whose  clasp  grew  closer  while  an  ear 

Was  bent  to  words  none  else  may  hear : 

Of  tresses  smooth  as  ravens'  plumes, 
And  eyes  with  lashes  dark  as  they, 

Whose  brilliance  still  my  breast  illumes : 
Of  words  that  will  not  pass  away, 
But  gain  new  beauty  day  b}'  day ; 

Of  heart  that  fluttered  as  a  bird, 

Whose  fragile  nest  is  rudely  stirred  : 

Of  love  which  girlhood's  bosom  knew, 

That  in  the  first  delicious  flush 
Of  womanhood  more  fervent  grew  ; 

How  gently  come  3-6  all,  like  blush 

Of  rosy  sunset  to  the  hush 
Of  waters  on  the  waveless  sea, 
And  soothe  my  care  as  silently  ! 


SAMUEL  J.  PIKE.  327 


Oh  heart  of  mine  !  in  boyhood's  day, 

How  soon  were  love's  sweet  lessons  learned ; 

How  slow  the  flame  will  die  away, 
That  first  upon  thine  altar  burned  ; 
How  hath  my  yearning  spirit  turned 

To  seek  for  bliss  it  knew  of  yore, 

And  heard  the  whisper,  Nevermore ! 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 

Toiling  pilgrims,  faint  and  weary,  lift  we  up  our  tearful  eyes 
To  the  radiant  bourne  and  blissful,  whitherward  our  journey  lies  ; 
To  a  land  on  groping  Reason  glimmering  dimly  and  afar, 
While  to  Faith's  clear  gaze  it  shineth  like  a  fixed,  unwaning  star. 

There  no  blinding  beams  of  noontide  on  the  vision  flash  and  glow  ; 
Shrouded  midnight  never  cometh  with  her  footfalls  hushed  and  slow 
But  undarkening  brilliance  floateth  on  the  waves  of  holy  air, 
Kindled  by  the  smile  eternal,  which  our  Father  deigns  to  wear. 

There  the  verdure  fadeth  never,  and  the  odors  never  die  ; 
There  beneath  unwilting  blossoms  piercing  thorns  may  never  lie  ; 
Music,  softer  and  diviner  than  from  earthly  lyres  hath  rolled, 
Through  angelic  utterance  breaketh,  and  from  quivering  cords 
of  gold. 

In  the  greenness  of  the  meadows,  sweet  still  waters  smile  and 

sleep, 

Round  whose  fragrant,  rosy  margin  countless  angels  vigils  keep 
Over  souls  b}-  sin  untainted,  by  temptation  purified, 
Who  through  grief  and  patience  strengthened  in  beatitude  abide. 

Like  a  dove  of  snowy  plumage,  brooding  on  her  leafy  nest, 
Peace  in  sacred  beauty  resteth,  deep  in  every  saintly  breast ; 
Hope  hath  found  the  dazzling  splendor  of  her  grandest  day 

outshone, 
While  through  every  bosom  thrilleth  joy  that  sense  hath  never 

known. 

Tears  that  trembled  on  the  lashes  in  affliction's  keenest  hours 
Were  as  dews  of  summer  evenings,  on  the  thirsty  lips  of  flowers, 
Vanishing,  when  daylight  cometh,  or  but  briefly  lingering, 
That  they  may  uncounted  jewels  round  the  glistening  blossoms 
fling. 

Faith  to  sight  hath  been  perfected  ;  love  new  fervor  hath  attained  : 
Ghostly  doubt  and  fear  have  perished  in  the  heart  where  once 
they  reigned ; 


#28  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Gleaming  crowns  adorn  each  forehead  by  the  thorns  of  sorrow  torn, 
And  he  wears  the  whitest  raiment  who  the  heaviest  cross  hath 
borne. 

We  from  that  fair  land  are  sundered  by  a  river  deep  and  wide, 
Whose  chill  waves  dash  nearer  to  us  like  an  ocean's  pulsing  tide  ; 
Day  by  da}r,  beneath  the  billows  hosts  go  down,  who  rise  no  more 
Till  the  unreturning  current  bears  them  to  the  heavenly  shore. 

There  in  mansions  God  hath  builded,  evermore  unperishing, 
Chant  they  hymns  of  loftiest  measure  to  their  Maker,  Saviour, 

King, 

Who  in  mercy  hath  his  creatures  with  eternal  dwellings  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Wandering  pilgrims,  faint  and  weary,  lift  we  up  our  tearful  eyes, 
To  the  radiant  bourne  and  blissful,  whitherward  our  journey  lies  ; 
While  her  pinions  lithe  and  buoyant  Hope  unfurls  to  waft  the  soul 
From  the  depths  of  its  despondence  to-  the  glories  of  its  goal. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED   SLEEP. 

When  wearity  the  eyelids  close, 

And  for  unbroken  slumber  yearn ; 
When,  faint  and  feeble,  for  repose, 

The  over-laden  heart  would  turn 
From  earth's  fallacious  happiness, 

To  jo3-s  more  pure  and  peace  more  deep, 
God  bendeth  from  on  high  to  bless, 

And  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

Upon  the  placid  bosom  rest, 

Like  summer  rain  on  blossoms,  dreams 
Of  regions  beautiful  and  blessed, 

While  on  the  quickened  vision  gleams 
A  light  that  earth  can  never  dim, 

Nor  folding  clouds  its  radiance  keep, 
Enkindled  at  the  throne  of  Him 

Who  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

In  sweet  and  full  forgetfulness 

Of  toils  and  tears  and  worldly  woe, 
The  spirit  trembles  in  excess 

Of  bliss  and  longs  itself  to  throw 
Amid  death's  narrow  stream,  and  swim 

To  shores  where  none  may  wake  to  weep, 
Abiding  near  the  feet  of  Him 

Who  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 


SAMUEL  J.  PIKE.  329 


Then,  in  the  grandeur  of  the  day 

That  waneth  never  into  night, 
The  shades  like  mists  shall  melt  away, 

And  heaven  its  own  abundant  light 
Diffuse  around  the  soul  that  lives 

Where  angels  ceaseless  sabbath  keep, 
Beneath  the  smile  of  Him  who  gives 

Unto  his  own  beloved  sleep. 


SONNET.      .  ;.,,, 

The  blithe  birds  of  the  summer-tide  are  flown, 
Cold,  motionless,  and  mute  stands  all  the  wood, 
Save  as  the  restless  wind,  in  mournful  mood 

Strays  through  the  tossing  limbs  with  saddest  moan. 

The  leaves  it  wooed  with  kisses,  overblown 
By  gusts  capricious,  pitiless,  and  rude, 
Lie  dank  and  dead  amid  the  solitude  ; 

Where-through  it  waileth  desolate  and  lone. 
But  with  a  clearer  splendor  sunlight  streams 

Athwart  the  bare,  slim  branches,  and  on  high 
Each  star,  in  night's  rich  coronal  that  beams, 

Pours  down  intenser  brilliance  on  the  eye, 
Till  dazzled  fancy  finds  her  gorgeous  dreams 

Outshone  in  beauty  by  the  autumn  sky. 


SONNET. 

The  buoyant  songs  of  youth's  swift  hours  are  flown, 

And  through  his  heart,  whose  locks  are  thiu  and  white, 

With  rime  of  age,  the  spirit  of  delight 
Goes  wailing  with  a  melancholy  moan. 
For  all  the  joys,  that  hope,  with  winning  tone, 

Proclaimed  should  linger,  deathless  dear  and  bright, 

Around  the  da}"  which  waneth  now  to  night. 
The  spirit  maketh  fruitless  search,  alone, 

Yet  to  the  trustful  and  aspiring  soul, 
Exalting  visions  of  its  home  are  given  ; 

And  grander  glory  clothes  its  loft}'  goal, 
Than  stars  assume  in  Autumn's  cloudless  even. 

Earth  si  owl}*  sinks  in  darkness  and  in  dole, 
While  breaks  the  pure,  auroral  light  of  Heaven. 


330  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

lEnori)  Seorge 

E.  G.  Adams  la  a  native  of  Bow.  He  Is  the  second  son  of  Rev.  John  Adams  of 
Newington,  and  a  descendant  of  Rev.  Joseph  Adams,  who  was  an  uncle  of  John 
Adams,  second  president  of  the  United  States.  He  was  graduated  at  Vale  College 
in  1849;  went  into  the  army  in  the  war  of  the  Rebellion  as  a  private  in  Company  I). 
Second  N.  H.  Regiment;  was  severley  wounded  at  the  battle  of  AVilliamsburg/and 
was  mustered  out  of  service  Nov.  27, 1865,  as  Captain  and  Brevet  Major.  The  next 
year  he  went  to  Oregon.  He  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Vancouver  ftritixti-r 
iit  Vancouver,  Washington  Territorv,  for  a  number  of  years,  and  appointed  bv 
President  Grant  Register  of  the  Land  Office11.  Subsequently  he  moved  to  St.  Hel 
en,  Oregon,  where  he  now  resides  and  edits  and  publishes'  The  Columbian.  He  is 
an  owner  of  much  land,  and  resides  on  a  romantic  claim  called  Frogmore. 


THE  POND  AMID  THE  HILLS. 

This  pond  that  lofty  hills  embrace, 

How  pure  and  placid  lies  ! 
Uplooking  to  the  heavens  above, 

As  if  with  human  eyes. 

Secure  from  all  the  fierce  wind's  rage, 
It  scarcely  heaves  its  breast ; 

Though  other  lakes  may  toss  and  foam, 
This  has  a  sabbath's  rest. 

When  blackest  clouds  are  in  the  sky, 
And  tempest  wild  doth  roar, 

It  almost  is  as  calm  and  still 
As  when  the  tempest's  o'er. 

For  storm  winds  in  their  storms  of  wrath 

Will  onward  pass  above, 
And  leave  it,  like  a  gentle  heart, 

That's  shielded  round  with  love. 


THE  PRECIOUSNESS  OF  TEARS. 

Those  pearl-like  tears  were  never  given, 

To  shed  for  every  trivial  woe  ; 
'Tis  mockery  that  such  gems  of  Heaven 

For  common  griefs  should  flow. 
The  minor  ills  that  haunt  our  lot 

Should  not  our  tears,  but  smiles,  provoke — 
Like  clouds  that  Heaven's  fair  azure  blot, 

By  sunshine,  easiest  broke. 

Pride  ofttimes  makes  its  votaries  weep 
For  pomp,  for  equipage  and  dress  ; 

They  sigh  in  all  the  glare  to  sweep 
Of  fashion's  littleness ; 


JOHN  BOD  WELL  WOOD.  331 

To  deck  themselves  in  robes  of  pride, 

And  flutter  out  their  trivial  span, 
Then  break  like  bubbles  on  the  tide, 

Despised  by  God  and  man. 

Ambition's  votaries  likewise  weep, 

When  glory  doth  their  grasp  evade, 
Like  shooting  stars,  that  downward  sweep, 

And  into  darkness  fade ; 
E'en  when  they  gain  the  gilded  prize 

'Tis  like  a  rainbow,  that  appears 
With  glory  to  illume  the  skies 

And  yet, — 'tis  only  tears. 

And  wealth,  how  many  sighs  and  tears 

Have  for  its  paltriness  been  paid ! 
And  toil  through  long  and  weary  years 

Till  life  begins  to  fade. 
Alas  !  it  only  can  bestow 

The  sculptured  marble  to  declare 
That  we  have  left  our  empty  show 

And  now  must  fester  there  ! 

But  when, our  long-loved  friends  depart, 

Those  pearl  like  tears  that  hidden  lie 
Within  the  casket  of  our  heart 

Should  grace  their  memory  ; 
O  then  'tis  nobleness  to  shed 

Those  pearls  upon  their  grave's  green  sod, 
For  that  sweet  tribute  to  the  dead 

Is  incense  unto  God. 

But  when  o'er  sins  and  follies  past 

We  weep  and  penitently  pray, 
O  then  in  Heaven  is  unsurpassed 

The  rapture  of  that  day. 
An  angel  comes — all  light — all  love — 

To  catch  the  penitential  gem, 
And  bear  it  to  the  realms  above 

To  grace  God's  diadem. 


332  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

a  printing  office  and  learn  that  trade.  Subsequently  he  worked  in  the  offices  of  tho 
Dover  Gazette,  Dover  Enquirer,  Morniiitj  Star,  and  in  offices  in  Concord,  Boston 
and  elsewhere.  In  1847  he  started  the  Tliurn<lii>/  ,S/:etche,r  at  Great  Falls.  Three 
years  afterwards  he  went  to  New  York  city  and  began  his  long  career  as  a  jour 
nalist.  He  is  attached  at  the  present  time  to  the  editorial  staff  of  the  New  York 
Herald. 


THE  WORTH  OF  BAUBLES. 

A  sailor  on  an  iceberg  lone, 
Afloat  within  the  frigid  zone, 
Mid  Alps  of  ice  and  icing  snow, 
Where  winds  that  chill  forever  blow, 
Sank,  helpless,  under  torpor  given 
By  icebergs  'neath  the  polar  heaven. 

And  as  he  sank,  he  spied  afar 

A  thing  that  glittered  as  a  star, 

And  scrambling  o'er  the  slimy  ice, 

Grasped  the  great  diamonds  of  rich  price, 

And  rusty  gold,  of  value  rare, 

The  record  of  some  shipwreck  there. 

"Ha  !  ha  !"  he  cried,  "and  these  shall  give 
The  warmth  and  bread  I  need  to  live  ! 
These,  these  in  princely  hands  shall  gleam 
While  I  rejoice  on  fortune's  stream'! 
But,  heavens  !  there  are  no  princes  here  ! 
This,  this  is  worse  than  worthless  gear  ! 

Were  diamonds  charred  to  coke  again, 

And  gold  but  fire,  Promethean, 

Then  I  could  make  a  royal  turn  1 

O,  how  I'd  have  these  brilliants  burn  ! 

But,  here  are  diamonds,  ic}'  cold  ; 

Here  is  not  warmth,  nor  bread,  but  gold  ! " 

In  anger  and  contempt  he  threw 

Those  jewels  into  ocean's  blue, 

And  sank  upon  the  ice,  and  then 

Relapsed  into  despair  again  ; 

E'en  while  world's  wealth  lay  at  his  side 

He  sank,  and  of  starvation  died. 


COURAGE,   FOREVER. 

What  we  do,  let's  do  with  boldness  ; 

What  we  know,  let's  speak  for  aye  ! 
And  respect  naught  for  its  olduess 

If  it  be  not  right  to-day. 


JOHN  BODWELL  WOOD.  33B 

What  is  right,  with  will  is  power ; 

Truth  is  truth,  and  must  prevail ; 
And  true  courage  for  an  hour 

Often  is  of  great  avail. 

Naught  is  gained  by  coward  groaning 

Under  each  mishap  and  ill ; 
Give  us  men  not  alwaj's  moaning — 

Men  of  nerve  and  iron  will. 

Firmly  stand  to  Freedom's  calling, 

Battling  to  defend  the  right — 
Fainting  not  though  scenes  appalling 

Startle  others'  timid  sight. 


ONE    FLASH    OF    LIGHTNING— A    TELEGRAM    AN 
SWERED. 

The  battered  ship  was  nearing  home, 
Still  strong  and  brave  as  though  no  gale 

Had  swept  her  decks  with  briny  foam 
And  strained  her  timbers,  keel  to  rail. 

Then  rose  a  hurricane,  with  seas 

That  were  as  thunder  when  they  broke 

Upon  her,  and  her  live-oak  knees 

Were  wrenched  by  each  successive  stroke. 

,  Yet  with  her  masts  and  spars  intact, 

She  seemed  a  stanch,  seaworthy  ship ; 
So  no  sail  hailed  her,  and  in  fact 

She  might  have  made  her  port  that  trip, 

But  one  appalling  lightning  flash 

Splintered  her  stately  masts  and  spars 

And  sent  them  whii'ling,  with  a  crash, 
Down  on  the  superstitious  tars. 

Then  an  abandoned  hulk  she  lay, 

Huge,  black  and  spectral  in  the  night — 

Forbidding  even  in  the  day — 
A  solemn,  most  unwelcome  sight. 

That  hulk  has  since  been  on  the  ways, 
And  then  launched  forth  upon  the  tide  ; 

And  now  again  she  proudly  plays 
Her  part  with  all  her  primal  pride. 


334  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Harriet  Netoetl  3Eattm. 

Mrs.  Eaton  is  the  eldest  child  of  the  late  Dea.  Ezekiel  and  Mrs.  Mary  R.  Lane  of 
Candla,  born  In  Candia,  Dec.  16, 1827.  She  became  the  wife  of  the  late  Harrison 
Katou,  M.  D.,  who  was  for  more  than  forty  years  "  the  beloved  physician  "  of  the 
towns  of  Merrimack  and  Litchtield.  Dr.  Eaton  deceased  Nov.  19, 1881.  Mrs.  Eaton 
resides  upon  the  old  homestead  at  Thornton's  Ferry,  Merrimack.  She  is  a  sister  of 
Mury  Blake  Lane,  whose  poetry  is  found  upon  a  later  page  of  this  volume. 


BEATITUDE. 

Bright,  coronal  hour  of  a  royal  day  ! 
When  in  his  calm,  cheerful,  beautiful  way, 
Caressing  my  brow,  he  will  fondly  say : — 
Dear  child  !  dearest  wife  !  why,  you  are  my  own, 
It  is  you  and  I,  and  the  crowd  are  flown  !          ^ 
Let  them  go  !  why,  you  and  I  are  alone  ! 

Why  the}7  are  good,  and  we  honor  them  all ; 
They  may  come  and  go,  they  may  rise  and  fall 
Like  tides  of  the  sea  ;  their  love  or  their  gall 
Is  the  same  to  me,  since  we  are  alone  ; 
Dear  child  !  precious  wife  !  my  best  and  my  own, 
And  all  but  ourselves  have  fluttered  and  flown  ! 

Into  mine,  look  glorious  eyes  of  blue, 

Of  Heaven's  clear  depths,  the  type  and  the  hue ; 

It  is  Heaven,  love  !  for  me  and  for  you, 

When  they  all  are  gone,  and  the  coast  is  clear, 

With  nobody  round,  and  nobody  near 

Save  two  loving  souls — wife  and  husband  dear. 


MY  MOAN. 

Upon  my  husband's  anguished  face, 
The  tears  fell  faster  than  the  rain 
Beating  without  against  the  pane. 

"  Dear  Love  I"  I  cried,  "one  last  embrace 
You  cannot  press  my  hand,  nor  speak  ; — 
One  sign,  one  word,  I  vainly  seek. 

If  you  do  hear  and  love  me  now, 
Wilt  love  me  through  th'  eternal  years, 
Beloved,  kiss  me  through  the  tears  !  " 

Bathing  his  cheeks,  and  pallid  brow, 
Kisses  and  tears  fell  soft :  the  rain 
Without,  beat  hard  against  the  pane. 


HARRIET  NEWELL  EATON.  335 

Fond  lips  that  met ;  blest  kisses,  three  ; 

Each  sweetest,  tenderest  and  best ! 

Dear  hands,  that  clasped  me  to  his  breast ! — 

Love  was  glorified  ; — turning  me 
From  the  warm  clay,  I  knelt  to  praise ; 
His,  "  no  more  pain"  through  endless  days  ! 

I  rose  ;  then  sank  beneath  the  weight 
Of  my  unutterable  woe  ; — 
Such  alternations  come  and  go. 

As  was  thy  gift,  my  loss  is  great ; 
Grieving  'neath  widowhood's  dark  pall, 
I  bless  thy  name,  but  hot  tears  fall, — 

And,  till  the  resurrection  morn, 
Whose  dawning  shall  dispel  the  rain, 
Whose  glory  break  against  the  pane, 

Sweet  Heart !  I,  for  thy  love,  shall  yearn  ; 
Would  God  that  I  this  day  might  die  ! 
'Neath  the  cold  sod,  with  thee,  to  lie ! 


THE  RAIN. 

When  I  was  a  child,  and  slept  'neath  the  roof 

Of  the  cottage  on  Maple  Hill, 
It  rained,  and  the  rain  had  a  peaceful  sound, — 

Does  it  rain  on  the  roof  there  still  ? 

When  I  was  a  bride,  and  smiled  'neath  the  roof 

Of  the  cottage^)n  Maple  Hill, 
It  rained,  and  the  rain  had  a  joyful  sound, 

Showers  of  blessings  on  me  still. 

When  the  other  day  I  turned  from  his  side, 
A  widow  !  lone,  and  heart-broken, 

It  rained,  as  it  rained  when  I  was  a  child  ; 
Was  the  rain,  of  woe,  a  token  ? 

It  rained,  as  it  rained  when  I  was  a  bride, — 

It  rains  to-night  on  Maple  Hill ; 
It  rains  on  my  heart ;  it  rains  on  a  mound 

In  the  graveyard,  gloomy  and  chill ! 

Neither  child,  nor  mother,  nor  living  soul 

Sleeps  to-night  upon  Maple  Hill, 
But  the  rain  no  doubt,  has  a  pleasant  sound, 

Falling  fast  on  the  roof  there  still. 


336  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  what  of  the  sleeper  under  the  sod, 
Who  wed  me  upon  Maple  Hill  ? — 

While  Heaven's  tears  fall  with  mine,  'tis  sure 
Heaven's  love  is  enfolding  him  still. 

It  may  rain,  and  rain,  and  forever  rain, 
Though  a  widow,  and  heart-broken, 

Of  peace,  and  of  joy,  and  of  love,  I  know, 
The  rain  is  a  certain  token  ! 


OLD  JOHN. 

Out  through  blossoming  apple  trees, 
Budding  clover,  and  humming  bees, 
Through  fragrant  breath  of  shining  Morn, 
They've  led  a  prince,  a  king, — Old  John  ! 

White  daffodil,  and  barberry  spray 
Wreathed  his  neck  as  he  turned  away, 
Firm  clasp  of  loving  arms  up-spread, 
Drew  quick  to  lips,  the  high,  gray  head. 

Through  garden-gate  I  watched  him  go, 
The  flashing  tail  through  currant-row  ; 
Farewell  old  John  !  and  grief  had  way, 
Beloved  !  up  there  !  dost  see  to-day  ? 

To  orchard-grave,  by  quiet  wood, 
They've  led  the  faithful,  brave  and  good  ; 
With  sobbing  heart  I  -fly  the  spot, 
My  ears,  hear  not  the  dreadful  shot ! 

Oh,  honest  heart !  Oh,  graceful  head  ! 
Oh,  perfect  feet !  Oh,  cheerful  tread  ! 
Rushing  mem'ries,  tender  and  true  ! 
Oh,  gladsome  rides,  we've  had  with  you  ! 

Dear  fellow !  you  were  one  of  three 
That  happy  were  as  we  could  be ! 
Arab  steed  nor  charger  of  Don, 
Gay  as  you,  old  rollicking  John  ! 

Over  highway,  through  wild  and  glen, 
Joyous  and  fleet,  you  bore  us  then, 
No  laggard  drop  in  loyal  veins, 
Though  Doctor  read  nor  held  the  reins. 

You  had  some  playful,  prankish  ways, — 
Too  queer  to  scold,  too  bad  to  praise ; 


WILLIAM  COPP  FOX.  337 


You  never  gnawed  the  pickets  straight, 
Nor  wrenched  from  hinges,  painted  gate, 

But  like  a  sinner,  laid  about 
Old  brown  fence  in  lively  rout, 
And  oft  made  mouths  at  Doctor  sly, 
As  his  soiled  coat  would  testify. 

You  knew  the  calls  of  round  before, 
You  stopped  unbid  at.  patients'  door, 
Centaur  might  be  a  myth  or  true, 
One  willing  soul,  master  and  you  ! 

Through  toilsome  sands,  or  driving  hail, 
O'er  Ferry  dark,  in  wind  and  gale, 
In  ever}'  storm,  through  useful  years, 
Your  awkward,  friendly  form  appears. 

That  shot  the  end  ? — or,  horse  of  fire, 
Speed  you  through  Heaven  his  desire  ? 
Is  resonant  its  golden  floor — 
With  spirit  hoofs— forevermore  ? 


jfoar. 


Win.  C.  Fox  resides  in  Wolfeborough,  his  native  town.  He  was  born  December 
29,  1827 ;  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1852 ;  studied  law  and  has  followed  that 
profession  in  Carroll  County  since  1855.  For  several  years  past  he  haa  been  presi 
dent  of  the  Wolfeborough  Savings  Bank. 


TOM  BROWN'S  REFORMATION. 

One  Thomas  Brown,  of  'Saukee  town,     . 

Had  gotten  much  infected 
With  fragrant  ''slings,"  and  such  hot  things, 

And  his  good  wife  neglected  ; 
While  she,  poor  Kate,  so  delicate, 
Each  SOITOW  seemed  a  crushing  weight, 

Sat  all  the  day  dejected — 

Alone  and  unprotected. 

Now  Kate  was  true  as  Prussian  blue 
To  all  her  nuptial  vows — 

To  serve  and  love,  and  ever  prove 
A  blessing  to  her  spouse, 

But  wept  at  night,  as  well  she  might, 

To  see  the  graceless,  fuddled  wight 
Return  from  long  carouse— 
And  sometimes  knit  her  brows. 


338  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  woman's  smiles  and  softer  wiles 

Can  no  impression  make  ; 
When  trembling  fears  and  burning  tears 

Man's  purpose  cannot  shake  ; 
When  all  her  arts  like  broken  darts 
Fall  shiver'd  from  our  stony  hearts, 

Perhaps  revenge  she'll  take — 

She's  often  "wide  awake." 


And  much  I  grieve,  that  Kate,  one  eve, 

Was  quite  enraged  to  find 
Before  the  door,  with  rather  more 

Than  "three  sheets  in  the  wind," 
One  Thomas  Brown,  a  drunken  clown, 
Now  staggering  up,  now  tumbling  down, 

Seeking  his  door  to  find — 

For  Tom  had  "gone  it  blind." 

How  Tom  got  in,  let  fancy  spin 

The  thread  of  that  narration  ; 
How  on  the  floor  he  'gan  to  snore, 

So  let  imagination ; 
But  lucky  hit  of  woman's  wit ! 
Most  sure Ij',  Kate,  thy  course  were  fit 

Example  for  a  nation — 

Of  wives  and  dissipation. 

Thus  Katy  did  : — a  coverlid, 

As  deep  in  sleep  he  lay, 
She  careful  rolled  with  many  a  fold 

About  his  torpid  clay  ; 
Then  in  it  tight  she  sewed  the  wight 
(A  sort  of  chrysalis  that  night,) 

And  bagged  him  snug  awa}' — 

Tom  woke  to  beg  and  pra}'. 

Morn  smiled  again,  but  Tom  in  vain 

With  living  shroud  contended  ; 
Cried  Kate,  "My  dear,  I'll  starve  you  here, 

Unless  your  ways  are  mended." 
Tom  felt  the  yoke,  his  pride  it  broke  ; 
Repentant  he  confessed  the  joke, 

And  meek  his  voice  ascended — 

"Our  revels  now  are  ended  !" 


WILLIAM  COPP  FOX.  339 


THE  WOLFEBOROUGH  CENTENNIAL,  JULY  9,  1870. 

By  an  indigenous,  Indigent  and  indignant 'Bard. 

Old  Town  !  to-day,  the  records  say, 
You've  jogged  along  j'our  temp'ral  way, 

Through  annual  and  biennial, 
Since  first  endowed  with  corporate  name, — 
Lank  ghost  of  Wolfe  forgive  the  same  ! — 
Till  you  have  won  the  grizzly  fame 

That  crowns  a  ripe  Centennial. 

Full  many  a  one,  now  "dead  and  gone," 
Whose  race  within  thee  was  begun, 

Loved  e'en  tlry  TFbZ/-ish  origin, — 
As  erst  the  Ilian  Twins  the  face 
Of  Lupine  nurse, —  a  "Roman  case," — 
Till  Rommy  "hit"  the  ticklish  place 

That  Remus  stowed  his  porridge  in  ! 

One  hundred  years  !  Why,  it  appears 
As  if  with  grateful  smiles — or  tears, 

We  might  just  drop  a  penny  all, 
And  filing  in  behind  a  crate 
Of  bon-bons  march  with  steps  elate 
To  Millville  Grove — and  celebrate 

Our  good  old  Town's  Centennial. 

But  thrift  and  gain  are  sued  in  vain, 
While  avarice  pulls  with  tight'ning  strain 

The  pucker  of  our  purses  all, 
And  when  our  cits  like  Highland  clan 
Should  rouse  and  muster  to  a  man, 
Of  zeal  or  tribute  one  may  scan, 

A  batch  of  doggerel  verse  is  all ! 

How  many  a  shade  by  sexton's  spade 
Forever  laid,  to-day  betra}red 

And  cheated  of  due  reverence, 
May  writhe  and  twist  beneath  the  stones 
That  mark  (and  mar)  where  rot  his  bones, 
And  supplicate  in  hollow  tones 

From  native  soil  disseverance  ! 

Then  suffer  rhyme  like  hops  to  climb 
And  wreathe  the  century-pole  of  Time, 

With  raspy  leaves  perennial, 
Lest  all  the  founders  of  the  Town, 
From  Tread  well,  Apthorp,  Cutter,  down 
To  "Fiddler  Jim,"  forever  frown 

Upon  our  lost  Centennial ! 


340  POETS  OF  NEW  HANI'S  Him-:. 

LINES, 

To  my  friends  Worster  and  Gafney,  Lawyers,  on  the  presentation  of  a  Muff  *1 
Red  Fox. 

Brothers  Worster  and  "Gaf. :"  You  have  made  me  to  laugh, 

Till  my  very  ribs  crackle  and  shiver, 
While  an  ear-to-ear  grin  has  distorted  my  skin, 

And  the  bile  fairly  "biles"  in  nr^  liver! 
Yea,  I  chuckle  and  shake,  till  my  viscera  ache, 

In  a  sort  of  hysterical  puzzle  ; 
With  hilarious  grimaces  wholly  ruined  my  face  is, 

But  with  fatness  I'm  foil  to  the  muzzle  ! 

What  a  present  (in  "fee"),  and  how  "foxy"  to  see, 

Is  the  yellow-eyed,  sanctified  joker  ! 
•How  his  craftiness  shows — e'en  the  tip  of  his  nose 

Is  the  synonyme  true  of  " d raw- poker !" 
See  the  prick  of  his  ear,  and  his  chicken-roost-leer, 

And  the  "-hang"  of  his  caudal  appendage ; 
Shod  with  puff-balls  his  "trotters" — neplus  ultra  of  "squatters," 

He's  the  Robin  of  leg-al  brigandage ! 

The  rascal,  no  doubt,  in  a  way  roundabout, 

Was  a  type  of  our  legal  profession  ; 
The  scamp  was  well  "red,"  and  had  some  length  of  head, 

And  could  make  the  "fur  fly"  on  occasion, 
From  hens,  hares  and  geese  he  extorted  his  "fees" 

With  most  sanctimonious  drj'ness, 
And  won  reputation  from  each  civil  nation 

As  the  nonpareil  emblem  of  slyness. 

For  the  gift,  many  thanks !  Could  I  turn  forty  cranks, 

With  quick  simultaneous  rotation, 
Scarce  a  decade  could  serve,  at  the  stretch  of  each  nerve, 

To  grind  out  my  grateful  oration. 
Reynard — Vulpes — 'AXunrnt !  Among  the  white  snow-peaks 

No  more  he  will  cuddle  his  fleece  up, 
But  set  up  in  my  domus,  shall  be  my  mute  Momus, 

And  "mouse"  'mongst  the  fairies  of  JEsop ! 


OCTOBER. 

Let  youthful  bard  his  homage  pay 
In  idyls  warm  to  flowery  May  ; 


WILLIAM  COPP  FOX.  341 


I,  fondly  sober, 

With  statelier  welcome  greet  the  time 
Of  ripening  fruits  in  Eden  clime, 
And  pledge  1113*  troth  in  prouder  rhyme 

To  brown  October. 

0  balm}-  air !  O  happy  soul, 
Bathed  in  this  liquid  aureole 

Of  molten  light ! 

O'er  field  and  wood,  o'er  lake  and  isle, 
O'er  distant  hill  and  mountain  pile, 

1  see  the  noon  of  Autumn  smile, 

And  bless  the  sight. 

The  trees,  like  nymphs,  enrobed  in  chintz, 
Bright  fleck'd  in  myriad  Tyrian  tints, 

Their  charms  diffuse ; 
Not  she  such  gorgeous  drapery  bore 
Through  high  Olympian  halls  of  yore, — 
Iris,  with  all  her  dazzling  store 

Of  rainbow  hues. 

Far  on  the  blue  of  Western  sky, 
Soft  clouds  in  shoals  of  amber  lie, 

Dissolving  slow ; 

O'er  orchards  flushed  and  shocks  of  maize, 
The  sun  distils  a  golden  haze 
From  haloes  that  becalm  the  blaze 

Of  days  ago. 

Nor,  Phoebus,  shalt  thou  rule  alone 
The  season  from  th}*  ruby  throne  ; 

Advancing  soon, 
In  flowing  veil  of  silvery  sheen, 
Her  scepter  o'er  th'  enchanted  scene 
Shall  sway  thy  night-dispelling  queen, 

The  harvest  moon. 

Let  younger  bards  of  Flora  sing, 
Sweet  princess  of  the  budding  Spring, 

But,  more  serene, 
Of  all  the  graces  of  the  year, 
I  choose,  my  heart  and  hearth  to  cheer, 
The  brown -eyed  Ceres  for  my  dear, 

My  bosom  queen. 


342  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


J.  M.  Fletcher  was  i  born  in  Halifax,  Mass.,  January  14,  1823.  He  ffraduntcd  at 
the  Lowell  High  School  in  1842,  and  came  the  next  year  to  Nashua,  where  he  settled 
and  has  resided  till  the  present  time,  with  the  exception  of  a  year  in  Mexico  and 
California.  He  was  married  in  1851  to  Miss  Adaline  Jane  Eastman,  of  Kumnry. 
From  1848  to  1854  he  was  engaged  as  a  bookseller  and  publisher,  and  since  the  latter 
date  has  been  in  business  as  a  manufacturer  of  furniture.  He  is  president  of  the 
Fletcher  and  Webster  Furniture  Company,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  Nashua  Nov 
elty  Works.  His  life  thus  far  has  been  a  life  of  business  activity,  and  he  has 
turned  to  poetry  rather  as  a  recreation  than  from  hope  of  achieving  literary  success. 
He  has  been  more  or  less  engaged  as  a  book  and  magazine  writer,  editor  and  com 
piler.  His  first  literary  adventure  was  the  compilation  of  the  "Golden  Gift," 
when  eighteen  years  of  age,  which  contained  a  half  dozen  of  his  own  pieces,  and 
had  a  sale  of  over  100,000  copies. 


TO  ADALINE. 

When  summer  gilds  the  meadows, 

And  meadows  scent  the  gales, 
And  rivers  flow  with  murmurs  low 

Along  the  verdant  vales, 
When  blossoms  on  the  highlands, 

And  blossoms  on  the  lea, 
Reflect  the  rays  of  summer  da}-s, 

How  sweet  to  think  of  thee. 

I  treasure  thee  forever, 

But  oh !  when  summer  brings 
The  birds,  and  bees,  and  leafy  trees, 

I  almost  sigh  for  wings 
To  bear  my  soul,  exultant, 

Above  the  land  and  sea, 
And  gather  earth's  divinest  things 

For  thee,  my  love,  for  thee. 

I  hie  to  pleasant  valleys, 

And  sit  by  silver  streams, 
And  half  believe  the  angels  weave 

A  portion  of  my  dreams, 
So  sweet  to  me  is  summer, 

So  full  of  joy  and  glee, 
And  sweetest  of  my  summer  dreams 

Are  pleasant  dreams  of  thee. 


ADVERSITY. 

The  Father's  love  is  over  all, 

Compassionate  and  holy, 
The  rich  and  poor,  the  great  and  small, 

The  lofty  and  the  lowly  ; 


JOSIAH  MOODY  FLETCHER. 


Adjusted  to  their  various  needs 

Are  all  his  ministrations  ; 
The  wounded  spirit  never  bleeds 

Without  its  consolations. 

Let  us  be  patient  with  our  lot, 

And  hopeful  of  the  morrow, 
Remembering  there  liveth  not 

A  soul  exempt  from  sorrow ; 
And  even  should  the  cruel  hand 

Of  poverty  oppress  us, 
Its  evils  we  can  best  withstand 

If  hopeful  hearts  possess  us. 

Contentment  cometh  not  from  wealth, 

Nor  ease  from  costly  living ; 
The  best  of  blessings,  peace  and  health, 

Are  not  of  fortune's  giving ; 
A  happy  heart  dependeth  not 

On  fortune's  fickle  treasures, 
But  rather  seeks  a  lowly  lot, 

Content  with  simple  pleasures. 

The  ways  of  God  are  just  and  wise 

To  every  living  creature, 
In  every  ill  there  underlies 

Some  compensating  feature, 
And  when  the  lowly  feel  the  rod 

Most  sorely  on  them  pressing, 
Full  often  is  the  living  God 

Most  lavish  in  His  blessing. 


ANGELS  BY  AND  BY. 

We  should  live  as  if  expecting 

To  be  angels  by  and  by, 
Every  moment  recollecting 

The  immortal  life  on  high, 
Where,  in  purity  and  glory, 

The  angelic  throngs  above 
Hymn  the  never  ending  story 

Of  the  great  Creator's  love. 

We  should  live  for  something  higher, 
Than  to  grovel  here  for  gold, 

And  to  holiness  aspire 

Like  the  sainted  ones  of  old  ; 


344  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPS1II11K. 


We  should  live  in  the  endeavor 
Human  passions  to  control, 

And  to  hold  the  truth  forever 
As  the  anchor  of  the  soul. 

We  should  live  for  one  another, 

For  humanity  and  right,  • 
True  to  God  and  to  each  other, 

And  the  soul's  divinest  light ; 
We  should  live  for  those  in  sorrow, 

On  the  waves  of  trouble  cast, 
With  an  ever  firm  endeavor 

To  be  faithful  to  the  last. 

In  the  narrow  path  of  duty, 

In  the  shining  path  of  love, 
In  the  purity  and  beauty 

Of  angelic  life  above, 
Even*  moment  recollecting 

The  immortal  life  on  high, 
We  should  live  as  if  expecting 

To  be  angels  by  and  by. 


LITTLE  ELOISE. 

It  was  a  summer  holiday,  as  bright  as  ever  shone  ; 

And  pretty  little  Eloise  had  wandered  forth  alone  ; 

For  there  were  roses  in  the  vale,  and  blossoms  on  the  trees, — 

And  hunting  wildwood  flowers  was  the  joy  of  Eloise. 

In  many  a  winding  path  she  strayed,  by  bonny  bank  and  stream' 
Until  at  length  she  laid  her  down  and  had  a  pleasant  dream. 
And  one  as  young  and  fair  as  she  then  took  her  by  the  hand, 
And  led  her  far  and  far  away  unto  a  shining  land. 

And  there  the  fields  were  carpeted  with  fresh  and  dewy  flowers, 
And  there  a  golden  light  was  shed  thro'  all  the  gladsome  hours, 
And  there  such  happy  murmurs  swelled  from  scenes  so  fresh 

and  fair, 
It  seemed  as  if  a  holy  song  was  filling  all  the  air. 

And  then  he  led  her  to  a  seat,  that  little  boy, — her  guide. 
And  said  that  he  was  Willie  dear,  her  brother  who  had  died. 
"And  now  we  are  in  Heaven,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  called  you 

here 
To  show  how  very  beautiful  its  blissful  scenes  appear." 


JOSIAH  MOODY  FLETCHER.  345 

"It  is  your  spirit  that  can  see  these  wondrous  things  around, 
And  you  will  wake  and  find  you've  been  asleep  upon  the  ground." 
'Twas  thus  that  little  Willie  spake,  her  little  angel  brother ; 
Half  buried  in  the  blooming  flowers  they  blessed  and  kissed 
each  other. 

And  then  a  mist  came  o'er  her  eyes,  and  waking  from  her  dream, 
She  felt  the  breeze  upon  her  cheek,  and  heard  the  purling  stream  ; 
And  running  home,  and  staying  not  till  she  had  found  her  mother, 
She  climbed  into  her  lap  and  asked,  "Had  I  a  little  brother?" 

"For  while  I  was  asleep  to-daj'  he  came  to  be  my  guide, 
And  said  that  he  was  Willie  dear,  my  brother  who  had  died  ; 
And  'twas  in  heaven  he  said  we  were,  and  all  was  happy  there, 
He  told  me  it  was  always  bright,  and  all  its  scenes  were  fair." 

"And  twined  within  each  other's  arms  we  blessed  and  kissed 

each  other, 

Now  can  it  be  that  I  had  once  so  sweet  a  little  brother  ?  " 
Thus  questioned  little  Eloise,  with  a  delighted  eAre, 
The  while  her  mother's  filled  with  tears  as  thus  she  made  reply. 

"Yes,  darling  child,  before  your  eyes  had  scanned  this  worldly  tide, 
Our  precious  little  Willie  lived,  our  darling  Willie  died  ; 
And  if  I  dimly  saw  before  that  world  so  pure  and  blest, 
Th}'  simple  words,  1113-  child,  have  set  m}-  doubts  and  fears  to  rest." 

And  clasping  then  her  darling  girl,  with  mother  love,  so  true, 
As  if  in  clasping  Eloise  she  clasped  her  Willie  too, 
She  seemed  to  see  that  bright  world  ope,  and  this  one  fade  away, 
As  did  her  darling  Eloise  upon  that  holiday. 


RUMNEY  HILLS. 

The  rippling  rills  from  Rumne}1  hills 

Flow  down  to  Baker's  river, 
And  how  my  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

To  see  them  flash  and  quiver, 
For  there,  along  those  bonny  banks, 

Beside  those  sparkling  waters, 
The  maiden  walked  who  won  my  love, 

The  flower  of  Grafton's  daughters. 

How  proudlj"  stand  the  mountains  grand 

On  Rumney's  rocky  border, 
Upheaved  by  the  Creator's  hand 

In  eloquent  disorder, 


346  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

But  beauty  dwells  in  all  the  dells, 
And  e'en  the  mountains  hoary 

Give  lessons  of  the  power  of  God, 
And  glimpses  of  His  glory. 

There  cradled,  lived  the  girl  who  came 

To  bless  my  lowland  dwelling, 
How  much  I  love  the  brave  old  place 

My  words  are  weak  in  telling. 
But  like  a  picture  of  the  bright 

Elysian  lands  of  story, 
The  halo  of  a  deathless  love 

Surrounds  it  with  its  glory. 


GOOD  WISHES. 

Good  wishes  to  the  world  I  send, 
To  rich  and  poor,  to  high  and  low, 

To  false  and  true,  to  foe  and  friend, 
To  one  and  all,  good  wishes,  go. 

To  endless  summer's  spicy  vales, 
And  frozen  zones  of  ice  and  snow, 

Like  perfume  of  the  gentle  gales, 
On  viewless  wings,  good  wishes,  go. 

To  lowly  cot  and  lordly  hall, 

To  courts  of  vice  and  haunts  of  woe, 
To  children  taught,  if  taught  at  all, 

The  waj's  of  crime,  good  wishes,  go. 

To  mourning  halls  and  bridal  bowers 
Where  grief  and  joy  are  wont  to  flow, 

To  convict  cells  and  prison  towers, 
With  healing  voice,  good  wishes,  go. 

To  slave  and  master,  bond  and  free, 
To  king  and  peasant,  friend  and  foe, 

Whatever  they  may  feel  for  me, 
To  one  and  all,  good  wishes,  go. 


MOURN  NOT  FOR  ME  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 

Mourn  not  for  me  when  I  am  dead, 
Turn  gently  back  the  falling  tear, 

And  rather  let  rejoicing  shed 
Its  kindly  beams  above  my  bier, 


JOSIAH  MOODY  FLETCHER.  347 

For  grief  is  useless,  tears  are  vain, 

They  can  not  help  the  sleeper  there, 
And,  waking  into  life  again, 

His  soul  the  mourner's  grief  may  share. 

Mourn  not  for  me  when  I  am  gone, 

Why  did  I  write  that  sad  word  "dead"  ? 
They  are  not  dead — the  newly  born 

Into  a  life  we  should  not  dread ! 
The  spirit's  freedom  once  attained, 

'Twill  pierce  the  earth  and  cleave  the  sky, 
Why  then,  when  more  of  life  is  gained, 

Do  mortals  weep  and  say,  "we  die"? 

Mourn  not  for  me  when  I  am  free, 

Why  did  I  write  the  sad  word,  "gone"? 
Gone  from  our  loved?     It  cannot  be  !    * 

The  everlasting  soul  lives  on, 
And  true  to  nature's  law  will  go 

Wherever  led  by  inmost  love, 
And  seek  the  scenes  of  earth  below, 

As  well  as  fairer  scenes  above. 


THE  SLEIGH-RIDE. 

The  stars  above  are  shining,  love, 

The  clouds  are  silver  white, 
And  we  are  all  alone,  my  own, 

This  regal  winter  night. 
Then  nestle  near  without  a  fear 

That  prying  eyes  will  see, 
And  we  may  say  whate'er  we  may, 

And  none  the  wiser  be. 

The  winter  skies  with  sweeter  dyes 

Were  never  known  to  glow, 
And  never  steed  with  swifter  speed 

Flew  o'er  the  fleecy  snow, 
And  never  night,  however  bright 

The  starry  dome  above, 
Outrivalled  this  in  joy  and  bliss, 

That  now  we  give  to  love. 

The  music  swells  from  silver  bells, 
And  echoes  far  and  wide, 

As  over  vale  and  hill  and  dale 
Right  merrily  we  ride  ; 


318  POETS  OF  NEW  HA  MI'S  111  HE. 


But  more  to  me  than  melody, 

However  sweet  its  fall, 
Is  woman's  face  of  winning  grace, 

The  crowning  charm  of  all. 

Then  banish  care  and  fondly  share 

This  season  of  delight, 
For  we  are  all  alone,  nrry  own, 

This  regal  winter  night ; 
And  nestle  near  without  a  fear 

That  other  eyes  will  see, 
And  we  may  say  whate'er  we  may 

And  none  the  wiser  be. 


THE  STOLEN  KISS. 

Oh  !  how  my  heart  upbraided  me 

When,  in  a  moment  dire, 
I  kissed  sweet  Jennie's  snow-white  hand, 

O'ercome  by  my  desire, 
And  saw  within  her  prett}'  e}'es 

A  rising  look  of  ire. 

I  begged  she  would  not  take  offence, 

Quite  overcome  with  fear, 
"Offence!  why  should  I  not?"  she  said, 

In  accents  low  and  clear, 
"That  you  should  kiss  a  lady's  hand 

When — when  her  lips  were  near !" 


LINES  TO  THE  AMERICAN  FLAG, 

ON  THE  4TII  OF  JULY. 

Thou  glorious  banner  of  the  free, 

Flung  out  from  countless  quivering  spars 
On  hill  and  plain,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

My  country's  flag  of  stripes  and  stars, 
What  joy  to  see  thy  colors  bright 

High  in  the  heavenly  arch  of  blue, 
Baptized  in  freedom's  holy  light, 

And  to  the  star  of  progress  true  ! 

What  raptures  rise  in  loyal  breasts 
To  see  those  gallant  folds  unfurled, 

Divine  with  freedom's  high  behests, 
And  broad  enough  for  all  the  world  ! 


JOSIAH  MO  OD  Y  FLETCHER.  349 

What  royalty  around  it  clings, 

Victorious  in  so  many  wars, 
Surmounted  by  the  bird  whose  wings 

Soar  nearest  to  the  sun  and  stars ! 

O  flag  of  hope  !  what  glories  blend 

With  every  star,  with  every  fold, 
Till  heaven  itself  could  scarcely  lend 

More  lustre  to  thy  gleams  of  gold  ! 
WTide  as  the  world  extends  thy  fame,    \ 

And  millions  join  in  loud  huzzas, 
And  glory  in  thy  glorious  name, 

My  country's  flag  of  stripes  and  stars  ! 


THE  PAUPER  MILL. 

Yonder  swings  a  gilded  sign 

Lettered  "Lager  beer  and  wine." 
It  were  well  if  those  who  gaze 

Saw  it  as  it  should  appear, 
"Wine  that  wins  from  virtue's  ways. 

Beer  that  brings  you  to  your  bier." 
Or  it  might,  with  reason  still, 

Read  "The  people's  pauper  mill." 

Stepping  in,  a  gilded  show 

Hides  an- under  wave  of  woe. 
Here  are  gathered  tell-tale  lips, 

There  is  seen  a  tell-tale  nose, 
Showing  how  the  one  who  sips, 

Surely  down  to  ruin  goes. 
Though  all  business  else  is  still, 

Blithely  goes  the  pauper  mill. 

Hearts  may  break  and  homes  ma}1  be 

Desolated  hopelessly ; 
Grief  and  sorrow,  want  and  woe, 

Crime  and  ruin,  hand  in  hand, 
From  the  poison  cup  may  flow, 

Desolating  all  the  land, 
Yet  do  Christian  people  still 

Tolerate  the  pauper  mill. 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

With  reverence  and  with  awe  we  bow, 
Proud  mountain  of  the  North,  to  thee, 


350  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Upon  whose  heaven  ascending  brow 
Is  throned  eternal  majest}'. 

Can  man,  unmoved,  thy  glories  trace? 
Unawed,  within  thy  presence  stand? 

Ah,  no  !  the  humblest  of  the  race 
Pay  homage  to  our  mountain  land. 

How  proudly,  in  the  morning  light, 

Thy  walls  reflect  the  roseate  rays 
That  on  thy  far  ascending  height 

Like  banners  of  an  arm}'  blaze  ; 
How  proudly  when  the  sun  ascends, 

And  days  meridian  charms  expand, 
Thy  summit  with  the  azure  blends, 

Thou  monarch  of  our  mountain  land. 

And  when  the  clouds,  with  sullen  gloom, 

To  fierce  and  fiery  conflict  march, 
And  belts  of  lurid  flame  illume 

The  chaos  of  the  heavenly  arch, 
More  proudly  still,  amidst  the  fierce 

And  flaming  fury  of  the  blast, 
With  mail  no  fiery  bolt  can  pierce, 

Ascends  thy  summit,  grim  and  vast. 

The  works  of  man — at  best  they  rise 

The  fleeting  wonder  of  a  day, 
Whilst  thou  shalt  proudly  pierce  the  skies 

Long  as  the  sun  and  stars  have  sway. 
The  boasted  monuments  of  art — 

How  puny  when  compared  with  thee, 
Whose  fadeless  grandeur  moves  the  heart 

As  mighty  tempests  move  the  sea. 

'Tis  fitting  that  thy  lordly  height 

Should  bear  Columbia's  proudest  name, 
And  keep  forever  green  and  bright 

The  glorious  record  of  his  fame  ; 
And  towering  o'er  our  fruitful  land, 

Such  love  of  freedom  should  inspire, 
As  nerves  the  heart  and  moves  the  hand 

To  guard  it  with  a  wall  of  fire. 

Around  thee  sweep  the  chilling  blasts 
Of  winter  in  his  wild  career, 

But  winter's  self  a  halo  casts 

Around  thy  forehead,  calm  and  clear, 


AUEIN  M.  PAYSON.  351 

And  when  the  snows  of  winter  melt, 

And  creep  away  in  shining  streams, 
Upon  thy  brow  the  lessening  belt 

Of  snow  and  ice  with  beauty  gleams. 

Thy  base,  with  summer  foliage  crowned, 

Invites  the  pilgrim  to  its  shade, 
And  there,  as  if  on  hallowed  ground, 

His  soul  responds  to  Him  who  made 
The  mountain's  summit  rise  above 

The  storms  that  roll  around  its  base, 
And  catch  the  gleams  of  light  and  love, 

A  lesson  to  the  human  race. 


Eurin 

A.  M.  Payson  formerly  resided  In  Portsmouth,  and  more  recently  in  Lymefleld, 
Mass.  In  1864  he,  with  Albert  Laighton,  compiled  the  "Poets  of  Portsmouth,"  a 
work  of  great  value. 

SEDES  MUSARUM. 

If  thou  wouldst  love  to  strike  the  lyre, 
And  wake  the  choral  song  of  heaven, 
Believe  not  inspiration's  fire 
Burns  brightest  at  the  dusk  of  even. 

But  haste  to  where  the  laurels  bend 
Their  graceful  boughs  at  morning  dawn, 
And  Nature's  voices  sweetly  blend 
In  joyous  music  o'er  the  lawn. 

In  whispering  branches  o'er  thy  head, 
And  laughing  brooks  beneath  thy  feet, 
Around  the  graves  of  hallowed  dead, 
The  sacred  Muses  hold  their  seat. 

On  hill-tops  and  in  grottos  green  ; 
Amid  the  strife  of  tempests  dire  ; 
Or  where  we  watch  the  nightly  queen, 
Whose  silver  light  sweet  thoughts  inspire  ; 

Amid  lone  silence,  deep,  profound  ; 
Up  where  no  creature's  foot  hath  trod, 
Or  voice  was  ever  heard  to  sound 
On  mountain  peak  but  that  of  God  ! 

Within  the  halls  of  Memory,  too, 
Where  legends  of  the  past  are  hung  ; 


352  POETS  OF  XE  \V  11. 1  .V  /•>'////,' /•:. 


And  o'er  whose  tablets,  waiting  3*00, 
Are  gems  of  beauty  loosely  flung  ; 

In  pattering  rain-drops  on  the  towers  ; 
The  heaving  ocean's  low  bass-tone  ; 
Beneath  the  grass,  mid  tiny  flowers  ; 
The  sighing  zephyr's  gentle  moan  ; 

Along  Piscataqua's  sunny  shore, 
Where  sweeps  the  deep  resistless  tide, — 
Their  echoes  answer,  evermore 
Down  toward  eternity  we  glide  ! 

Out  on  those  dark  sequestered  strands, 
When  forms  were  transformed  into  ghosts 
In  years  long  past,  bright  laurelled  bands 
Of  Muses  strolled  along  the  coasts. 

Could  some  clear  panoramic  view 
Of  dusky  olden  time  be  given, 
And  scenes  of  centuries  lost  renew, 
Beneath  this  deep  blue  vault  of  heaven, 

Perhaps  those  spirit  forms  might  now, 
All  floating  toward  the  dark-blue  sea, 
Be  seen  with  garlands  on  their  brow, 
Waking  the  harp's  sweet  minstrelsy. 


gamuel  (Erafut  feeler. 

Rev.  Samuel  Crofut  Kecler  was  born  April  1, 1828,  in  Redding  Conn.,  but  was 
reared  from  early  infancy  in  the  town  of  Bethel  in  that  state.  He  joined  the  New- 
York  East  Conference  of  the  Methodi<t  Episcopal  Church  in  April,  ISfXi,  and  \vas 
ordained  a  deacon  in  1855,  and  an  elder  in  ltC>7.  He  has  received  live  pant  oral 
appointments  in  his  native  state,  viz:  Woloottville,  Colebrook  River,  Trumhull, 
Milford  and  Georgetown.  He  was  stationed  eleven  years  in  the  cities  of  Ne\v  ">  nrk 
and  Brooklyn,  and  was  pastor  of  four  churches  in  those  cities,  one  of  them  being 
the  old,  historical,  John  Street  Church,  the  lirst  ami  oldest  Methodist  Church  c-ial.. 
lishedin  this  country.  He  was  also  encaged  as  Agent  of  the  Am.  Seamen's  Friend 
Society  and  in  City  Mission  Work  for  a  time.  In  the  spring  of  IsTT  lie  was  transferred 
to  the  New  Hampshire  Conference  and  stationed  at  Suncook  where  he  remained 
three  years.  The  third  year  of  his  pastorate  of  the  church  in  Sunapee  expired  in 
April,  1883.  In  1878  he  published  a  neat  volume  containing  a  poem  "In  Memoriam" 
of  Josie  Langmaid. 


BROKEN-HEARTED. 

To  blight  a  worthy  and  virtuous  name, 
A  scandal,  born  of  an  envious  mind, 

Was  loaded  full  with  a  burden  of  slmmr, 
And  given,  then,  to  the  wings  of  the  wind  ; 

And  onward  they  bore  the  whispering  breath, 

With  the  cruel  message  of  woe  and  death. 


SAMUEL  CROFUT  KEELEK.  353 

Clearer  and  stronger  it  speedily  grew, 
As  wider  and  farther  it  wandered  round  ; 

From  one  to  another  it  swiftly  flew, 

Till  at  last  the  scandal  its  victim  found  ; 

And  her  soul  was  pierced  by  the  poison-dart, 

A  reproach  that  was  aimed  to  break  her  heart. 

Pure  as  the  treasures  of  snow  in  the  sky, 

Enwrapt  in  the  heavens  that  gave  them  birth, 

And  borne  o'er  the  paths  where  the  seraphs  fly, 
Unstained  by  the  touch  of  the  soiling  earth — 

Yet  a  sland'rous  tongue  had  set  her  apart, 

To  bear  its  reproach  and  to  break  her  heart. 

And  the  world  grew  darker  day  by  day, 
And  her  desolate  life  grew  still  more  sad, 

From  the  heartless  scoff  of  the  rude  and  gay, 
And  the  cold  distrust  of  the  good  and  bad : 

Yet  mutely  she  bore  her  sorrowful  part, 

While  cruel  reproach  was  breaking  her  heart. 

From  the  scourge  of  tongues  though  bleeding  and  torn, 

To  appeal  for  mercy  to  man  were  vain, 
And  her  cry  to  Heaven  alone  was  borne, 

As  she  strove  to  hide  her  sorrow  and  pain. 
But  the  foes  of  her  peace  still  plied  their  art, 
While  reproach  was  surely  breaking  her  heart. 

O'er  full,  at  last,  was  the  cup  of  her  woe, 
And  a  sweet  release  to  her  soul  was  given ; 

From  the  scourging  of  evil  tongues  below 
She  went  to  the  "great  reward"  in  heaven. 

As  the  fleshly  walls  were  bursting  apart, 

"Reproach,"  she  exclaimed,  "hath  broken  my  heart." 


THE  SILENT  DEAD. 

He  lay  in  his  crib,  where  oft  he  had  slept, 

And  innocent  joys  o'er  his  features  were  beaming ; 

Like  one  who  in  slumber  by  angels  is  kept, 

To  me  did  he  seem  to  be  sleeping  and  dreaming. 

Wishing  'twere  thus,  alas  !  such  was  nay  thought ; 

And,  "Willie,"  I  call'd,  but  he  answer'd  me  not. 

Four  summers  he  lived,  and  soon  they  had  flown, 

For  joys  that  were  new  with  each  he  was  bringing ; 
Its  light  was  his  presence,  its  music  his  own : 


354  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

But  hush'd  is  his  music,  that  light  is  not  shining, 
And  sadly  I  miss  him  with  the  blessings  he  brought ; 
And,  "Willie,"  I  call,  but  he  answers  me  not. 

I've  stood  by  his  grave,  where  gently  they  laid  him  ; 

Cold  were  the  winds  that  o'er  him  were  wailing ; 
But,  deep  in  his  sleep,  where  the  frost  has  bound  him, 

He  hears  not  the  wind,  nor  heeds  he  my  yearning ; 
His  name  to  my  ear,  by  echoes  was  brought ; 
As,  "Willie,"  I  call'd,  and  he  answer'd  me  not. 

1  dream  he  is  near  me :  as  upward  I  gaze, 
His  beautiful  form  on  the  air  is  reclining ; 

O'er  my  sorrowing  heart,  and  ni}-  darken'd  days, 
His  presence  its  light,  its  fragrance  is  shedding : 

He'll  answer  me  now,  so  sweetly  I've  thought ; 

And,  "Willie,"  I've  call'd,  but  he  answer'd  me  not. 

I  know  he  has  gone,  and  safely  passed  o'er, 

To  the  land  of  the  bless'd,  where  now  he  is  dwelling ; 

I've  follow'd  him  down  to  the  shadow}'  shore, 

His  footsteps  I've  traced  on  the  land  he  was  leaving  : 

There  vainty  I've  wept,  him  in  vain  I  have  sought, 

For,  "Willie,"  I've  call'd,  but  he  answer'd  me  not. 

Unseen  are  the  things  by  faith  I  behold  ; 

A  city  with  beauty  and  glory  all  gleaming ; 
Its  gates  are  of  pearl,  its  streets  are  of  gold, 

And  sweet  are  the  songs  that  there  they  are  singing ; 
There  I  have  seen  him,  his  strains  I  have  caught, 
And,  "Willie,"  I've  call'd,  but  he  answer'd  me  not. 

When  before  me  the  veil  by  death  shall  be  riven, 
Changing  my  being,  my  grossness  refining  ; 

Then,  organs  like  his  to  me  shall  be  given, 
Seeing  as  I'm  seen,  and  heard  as  I'm  hearing ; 

No  visions  nor  echoes  my  senses  shall  mock  ; 

Nor,  "Willie,"  I  call,  and  he  answer  me  not. 


Caroline  25.  $t.  Barker, 

Mrs.  Caroline  Eustis  Parker  is  the  (laughter  of  the  late  Edmund  and  Catharine 
Langdon  Koberts,  of  Portsmouth,  where  her  early  life  was  spent.  In  the  year  1S4» 
she  married  Kobcrt  I'Mrker,  a  lawyer  of  Delhi,  Delaware  County.  N.  Y.,"an<l  she 
lias  resided  in  Delhi  since  her  marriage;  and  has  continued  to  contribute  article* 
both  lu  prose  and  verse,  to  some  of  the  best  periodicals  in  this  country,  and  toru 
long  while  she  wrote  regularly  for  papers  published  in  London,  England.  Many 
of  her  choice  poems  and  tongs  have  been  set  to  music,  by  composers  of  no  ordinary 
standing.  Airs.  Parker  h:i*  also  published  a  number  of  books  for  children,  among 
others,  "Work  and  Play,"  "Stories  for  Little  Ones  at  Home,"  "Wilson's  Kindling 
Depot,"  and  a  small  volume  entitled  "The  Old  Kitchen  Fire,  and  other  poems" 
published  by  the  Am.  Tract  Society,  New  York. 


CAEOLINE  E.  R.  PAEKEE.  355 

OUR  LAMB. 

Take  away  the  little  baby, 

Folded  in  his  garments  white  ; 
Place  him  in  the  rosewood  casket, 

Close  the  lid  upon  him  tight ; 
Throw  the  pall  upon  the  coffin, 

Bear  our  little  one  away  ; 
Leave  me  in  my  quiet  chamber, — 

We  have  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 

Bear  the  casket  and  its  jewel 

Out  beneath  the  open  sky  : 
Dust  to  dust,  our  little  treasure 

With  its  mother-earth  must  lie. 
Heap  the  sod  upon  the  coffin, 

Hide  our  darling  quite  away  ; 
Leave  me  in  my  quiet  chamber, — 

We  have  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 

Let  him  sleep  on,  while  the  daisies 

Bloom  upon  the  grassy  sod  : 
Leave  him  there,  our  fairest  flower, 

Leave  our  darling  with  his  God  ! 
Very  lonely,  sad,  and  heart-sick, 

On  my  bed  I  weep  and  pray ; 
Leave  me  in  my  quiet  chamber, — 

We  have  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 

Only  three  short  weeks  I  had  him 

Folded  in  my  arms  of  love  ; 
Then  the  Heavenly  Shepherd  called  him 

To  that  other  fold  above. 
Oh  !  I  know  my  child  is  safest, 

Borne  on  angel  wings  awa\r ; 
Yet  my  tears  are  falling,  falling, 

For  we've  lost  our  lamb  to-da}'. 

Bear  him,  angels,  far  above  us, 

To  the  regions  of  the  blest  : 
No  more  pain,  no  sin,  no  sorrow, — 

Safe  within  the  fold  of  rest. 
Throbbing  heart-aches,  tears  of  anguish, 

Let  me  banish  you  away  ! 
Oh,  rejoice !  though  sick  and  lonely, — 

Heaven  has  gained  our  lamb  to-day. 


356  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

God,  in  his  good  time,  will  send  us 

Blessed  comfort  from  above  : 
He  who  wept  o'er  Lazarus  sleeping 

Looks  on  us  with  pitying  love. 
Little  lamb,  in  Jesus'  keeping, 

Christ  himself  hath  called  away  ; 
Heavenly  Shepherd,  gently,  gently, 

Guide  our  little  lamb  to-da}-. 


13ogle. 


Mrs.  Boyle  was  a  native  of  Portsmouth,  and  second  daughter  of  Edmund  and 
Catharine  Lanjjdon  Roberts.  In  the  year  1858  she  married  Dr.  James  Boyle,  a 
physician  of  New  York  city.  She  was  a  great  invalid  for  many  years,  and  bore 
with  wonderful  patience  and  Christian  fortitude  the  severe  suffering  she  was 
(•ailed  upon  to  endure.  She  died  on  the  16th  of  March,  1868.  Her  life  was  an  ex 
emplification  of  the  very  "beauty  of  holiness."  Her  poems  are  of  a  very  high 
order,  many  of  them  breathing  a  spirit  of  pure  and  true  devotion,  have  become 
household  words  among  her  many  friends.  Mrs.  Boyle  also  wrote  many  books  for 
children,  among  others,  "The  Stepmother,"  "Our  Opposite  Neighbor,"  and  '-The 
Good  Grandmother,"  issued  by  the  Episcopal  8.  S.  Union.  Her  books  and  poems 
had  a  very  large  circulation  in  this  country,  and  many  of  them  were  repubiished 
in  England. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

By  the  dusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hillside, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere  : 
All  round  the  open  door, 
Where  sit  the  aged  poor, 
Here,  where  the  children  play 
In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 

I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart, 

Toiling  his  busy  part ; 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everj'where  : 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming  ; 


ABB  IE  HUNTO  ON  MC  CHILLIS.  357 

For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  light, 
I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

More  welcome  than  the  flowers 

In  summer's  pleasant  hours  : 

The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 

And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 

In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 

In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come, 

And  deck  }-our  silent  home  ; 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  ever}'where : 

My  humble  song  of  praise, 

Most  gratefully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land  ; 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 


Mrs.  McCrillis  was  born  in  Unity  in  1828.  She  resided  in  her  native  town  until 
she  was  married  in  1851  to  Mr.  William  H.  McCrillis  of  Goshen.  Their  home  was 
in  Goshen  until  1874  when  they  removed  to  Newport. 


THE  DAISY. 

I  am  a  laughing  dais}',  a-dancing  in  the  sun  ; 

The  farmer  tries  to  stop  me  as  o'er  his  fields  I  run. 

The  more  he  plans  and  ponders  some  means  to  drive  me  out, 

The  more  the  people  love  me,  and  tote  me  all  about. 

And  little  children  love  me,  and  we  together  play ; 
We're  nodding  in  the  sunshine  all  through  the  summer's  da}'. 
They  shower  my  pure  white  petals  around  like  falling  snow, 
And  join  in  fun  and  mischief,  as  through  the  grass  we  go. 

Then  what  care  I  for  farmer?  with  happy  children's  love, 
I'll  spread  his  grounds  all  over,  like  white  snows  from  above. 
I  come  in  earl}'  summer,  and  stay  till  dreary  fall, 
Rejoicing  in  my  favor ;  for  I'm  the  pet  of  all. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


I'm  painted  on  a  panel  to  fill  an  empty  space  ; 
Wrought  into  window  shading,  and  in  the  finest  lace. 
I'm  on  the  richest  satin,  of  every  hue  and  shade, 
Of  which  the  very  loveliest  of  Christmas  gifts  are  made. 

I'm  woven  into  carpets  in  many  a  sweet  bouquet, 
And  here  I  bloom  all  winter,  as  brightly  as  in  May. 
I  go  to  church  in  summer  on  hats  of  dainty  style ; 
I  do  not  join  the  service,  but  bow  my  head  the  while. 

I  go  to  balls  and  parties  twined  gracefully  among 
The  silver  locks  of  sixty  and  golden  of  the  young. 
I'm  on  the  silver  service,  and  on  the  china  ware  ; 
It's  seldom  you  will  miss  me,  for  I  am  everywhere. 


Jeremtai)  lEams  Hanfcm. 

J.  E.  Rankin,  D.  D.,  son  of  Rev.  Andrew  and  Lois  E.  Rankin,  is  a  native  of 
Thornton.  Much  of  his  boyhood  was  spent  in  Salisbury  and  Concord;  and  he 
once  taught  the  academy  at  Saubornton  Square;  graduated  at  Middle  bury  College 
in  1848 ;  at  Andover  Theological  Seminary  in  1854 :  has  preached  in  Potsdam,  X.  Y., 
St.  Albans,  Vt.,  Lowell  and  Charleston,  Mass.,  and  for  thirteen  years  has  been 
pastor  of  tha  First  Congregational  Church  of  Washington,  I).  C.  He  is  called  tin- 
Radical  Poet  Preacher  of  the  Capital.  Dr.  Rankin  has  a  clear,  sympathetic  voice, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  popular  preachers.  He  has  published  many  hymns,  poem*, 
and  sermons.  A  volume  entitled  "Subduing  Kingdoms,  and  other  Sermons,"  ap 
peared  In  1882. 


SLEEP  HERE  IN  PEACE. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

To  earth's  kind  bosom  do  we  tearful  take  thee, 
No  mortal  sound  again  from  rest  shall  wake  thee  ; 
No  fever-thirst,  no  grief  that  needs  assuaging, 
No  tempest  burst  above  thy  head  loud  raging. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

No  more  thou'lt  know  the  sun's  glad  morning  shining, 
No  more  the  glory  of  the  day's  declining ; 
No  more  the  night  that  stoops  serene  above  thee, 
Watching  thy  rest,  like  tender  eyes  that  love  thee. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Unknown  to  thee,  the  spring  will  come  with  blessing, 
The  turf  above  thee  in  soft  verdure  dressing ; 
Unknown  will  come  the  autumn,  rich  and  mellow, 
Sprinkling  thy  couch  with  foliage,  golden  3'ellow. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 


JEREMIAH  EAMS  EANKIN.  359 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

This  is  earth's  rest  for  all  her  broken-hearted, 
Where  she  has  garnered  up  our  dear  departed  ; 
The  prattling  babe,  the  wife,  the  old  man  hoary, 
The  tired  of  human  life,  the  crowned  with  glory. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

This  is  the  gate  for  thee  to  walks  immortal, 
This  is  the  entrance  to  the  pearly  portal ; 
The  pathway  trod  by  saints  and  sages  olden, 
Whose  feet  now  walk  Jerusalem  the  Golden. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Sleep  here  in  peace ! 

For  not  on  earth  shall  be  man's  rest  eternal ; 
Faith's  morn  shall  come  !  Each  setting  sun  diurnal, 
Each  human  sleeping,  and  each  human  waking, 
Hastens  the  da}T  that  shall  on  earth  be  breaking. 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 

Faith's  morn  shall  come  !  when  He,  our  Lord  and  Maker, 
Shall  claim  His  own  that  slumber  in  God's  Acre  ; 
When  He,  who  once  for  man  death's  anguish  tasted, 
Shall  show  death's  gloomy  realm  despoiled  and  wasted  ! 

Sleep  here  in  peace  ! 


IN  SIGHT  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  SEA. 

I  sat  alone  with  life's  memories 

In  sight  of  the  crystal  sea  ; 
And  I  saw  the  thrones  of  the  star-crown'd  ones, 

With  never  a  crown  for  me. 
And  then  the  voice  of  the  Judge  said,  "Come," 

Of  the  Judge  on  the  great  white  throne ; 
And  I  saw  the  star-crowned  take  their  seats, 

But  none  could  ^call  my  own. 

I  thought  me  then  of  ray  childhood  days, 

The  prayer  at  my  mother's  knee  ; 
Of  the  counsels  grave  that  my  father  gave — 

The  wrath  I  was  warned  to  flee  ; 
I  said,  "Is  it  then  too  late,  too  late? 

Shut  without,  must  I  stand  for  aye  ? 
And  the  Judge,  will  He  say,  'I  know  you  not,' 

Howe'er  I  may  knock  and  pray  ?" 


3GO  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  thought,  I  thought  of  the  days  of  God 

I'd  wasted  in  folly  and  sin — 
Of  the  times  I'd  mock'd  when  the  Saviour  knock'd, 

And  I  would  not  let  Him  in. 
I  thought,  I  thought  of  the  vows  I'd  made 

When  I  lay  at  death's  dark  door — 
"Would  He  spare  my  life,  I'd  give  up  the  strife, 

And  serve  Him  forever  more." 

I  heard  a  voice,  like  the  voice  of  God — 

"Remember,  remember,  my  son  ! 
Remember  thy  ways  in  the  former  da}-s, 

The  crown  that  thou  might'st  have  won  !" 
I  thought,  I  thought  and  my  thoughts  ran  on, 

Like  the  tide  of  a  sunless  sea — 
"Am  I  living  or  dead?"  to  mj-self  I  said, 

"An  end  is  there  ne'er  to  be?" 

It  seemed  as  though  I  woke  from  a  dream, 

How  sweet  was  the  light  of  day  ! 
Melodious  sounded  the  Sabbath  bells 

From  towers  that  were  far  away. 
I  then  became  as  a  little  child, 

And  I  wept,  and  wept  afresh  ; 
For  the  Lord  had  taken  my  heart  of  stone, 

And  given  a  heart  of  flesh. 

Still  oft  I  sit  with  life's  memories, 

And  think  of  the  crystal  sea  ; 
And  I  see  the  thrones  of  the  star-crowned  ones ; 

I  know  there's  a  crown  for  me. 
And  when  the  voice  of  the  Judge  says  "Come," 

Of  the  Judge  on  the  great  white  throne, 
I  know  mid  the  thrones  of  the  star-crowned  ones 

There's  one  I  shall  call  my  own. 


AFTER  SNC*V. 

FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

After  snow,  after  snow 

Do  the  sweet-breathed  violets  blow  ; 
Then  grim  winter  is  departing, 
And  the  emerald  clover  starting : 

While  the  lark  mounts  high,  you  know, 
After  snow. 


JEREMIAH  EAMS  RANKIN.  361 

As  God  will,  as  God  will ! 

Be  it  mine  but  to  hdld  still : 
Should  the  clouds  above  me  thicken, 
Rain  will  but  the  grasses  quicken, 

And  God's  treasure-houses  fill : 
As  God  will. 

Hush  my  heart !  hush  my  heart ! 

Ease  must  interchange  with  smart ; 
Though  thick  troubles  now  enfold  thee, 
Let  sweet  trust  in  God  uphold  thee ; 

Look  above  :  'tis  faith's  high  art : 
Hush,  niy  heart ! 


THE  BABIE.* 

Nae  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes, 

Nae  stockin'  on  her  feet ; 
Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snaw, 

Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 

Her  simple  dress  o'  sprinkled  pink, 

Her  double,  dimplit  chin, 
Her  puckered  lips,  and  baurny  mou', 
With  na  ane  tooth  within. 

Her  een  sae  like  her  mither's  een, 

Twa  gentle,  liquid  things  ; 
Her  face  is  like  an  angel's  face  : 

We're  glad  she  has  nae  wings. 

She  is  the  buddin'  o'  our  luve, 

A  giftie  God  gied  us  : 
We  maun  na  luve  the  gift  owre  weel ; 

Twad  be  nae  blessin'  thus. 

We  still  maun  lo'e  the  Giver  mair, 

An'  see  Him  in  the  given  ; 
An'  sae  she'll  lead  us  up  to  Him, 

Our  babie  straight  frae  Heaven. 

*  In  the  copy  of  sheet  music  published  by  Ditson  &  Co.,  this  stanza  is  intro 
duced  as  a  chorus : — 

Bonnie  babie,  clean  and  sweet, 
Now  ye  craw,  and  now  ye  greet. 
Nane  but  God  can  ever  see 
What  ye  are  to  wife  and  me. 


362  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Rev.  Sllvanus  Hayward,  the  son  of  Pea.  Arnherstand  Sarah  (Fish)  Hay  wan  I.  was 
born  in  Gilsum,  December  3,  18-28.  His  mother  is  first  cousin  to  the  late  William 
C.  Bryant.  He  fitted  for  college  at  home,  and  graduated  at  Dartmouth  in  1853. 
He  then  engaged  in  teaching;  was  preceptor  of  the  Academy  at  Franoestown  three 
years;  at  Mclndoe's  Falls,  vt.,  two  years;  and  at  Pembroke  one  year.  He  was  a 
teacher  at  Kimball  Union  Academy,  and  at  New  Ipswich  Appletoh  Academy,  one 
year  each.  Having  been  approbated  as  a  candidate  for  the  ministry,  he  supplied  the 
pulpit  of  the  Second  Church  in  New  Ipswich  nine  months.  He  was  ordained  and 
Installed  pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Dunbarton,  Oct.  9, 1861;  was  dis 
missed  May  1, 1860,  and  installed  at  South  Berwick,  Maine,  May  11,  1866.  where  he 
remained  seven  years.  In  1873  he  was  called  bv  the  American  Missionary  Associa 
tion  to  a  Professorship  of  Mathematics  in  Fiske  University,  at  Nashville,  Tenn., 
where  he  remained  two  years.  For  the  next  five  years  he  was  engaged  mostly  in 
writing  the  History  of  "Gilsum,  which  was  published  in  1881.  He  was  installed 
pastor  of  the  Evangelical  Free  Church  at  Globe  Village  in  Southbridge,  Mass..  Dec. 
•J8,  1880.  In  July,  1870,  he  delivered  at  Dartmouth  College,  a  poem,  entitled,  "Brass 
and  Brains." 


LINES  AT  SUNSET. 

Oh  could  I  but  flty  with  spirit-like  speed 

On,  on  to  the  setting  sun  ! 
And  still  where  the  trace  of  his  bright  glories  lead, 

In  ecstasies  follow  on  ! 

0  how  would  I  bathe  in  the  lambent  light, 
And  float  in  the  floods  of  gold  ! 

1  would  bind  my  brow  with  the  purple  bright, 

And  the  azure  around  me  fold ! 

I  would  rest  on  the  wings  of  the  white  curling  mist, 

The  lightest  the  breeze  ever  bore  ! 
By  the  sweet  lips  of  Beauty  my  cheeks  should  be  kissed, 

And  to  earth  I'd  return  nevermore  1 


TO  A  SLEEPING  INFANT. 

Little  infant,  softly  slumber, 
Thee,  while  life  in  weeks  we  number, 
Worldly  cares  cannot  encumber, 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 

Rest  thee  still,  for  while  thou'rt  sleeping, 
Thoughts  of  sorrow  o'er  thee  creeping 
Cannot  give  thee  cause  for  weeping. 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 

Life  is  coming  with  its  troubles, 
Pleasures  emptier  than  bubbles, 
Wealth  that  every  sorrow  doubles. 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 


SIL  VANUS  HA  YWARD.  363 

Smiles  upon  thy  face  are  beaming, 
Rays  of  glittering  glory  gleaming 
From  the  far  off  land  of  dreaming. 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 

Or  do  poets  tell  us  rightly, 
That  when  infants  smile  so  brightly, 
Angels  o'er  them  whisper  lightly  ? 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 

Let  those  whispers  ever  guide  thee, 
Then,  whate'er  in  life  betide  thee. 
Spirits  bright  shall  smile  beside  thee, 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 

Short  the  time  till  life  forsaking, 
Deeper  rest  shalt  thou  be  taking 
In  "the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking." 
Sleep  on,  my  child,  sleep  on. 

Na}r !  a  glorious  hope  is  given  ; 
Lo,  the  bonds  of  Death  are  riven  ! 
To  the  cr}-stal  dawn  of  Heaven, 
Awake,  my  child,  awake  ! 


FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  AN  ALBUM. 

"Procul,  O  procul,  este  profani!" 

Ye  who  ope  this  book,  beware  ! 
Let  indifference  never  dare 
Stain  the  page  that  now  is  fair. 

This  is  Friendship's  hoty  shrine, 
Here  Affection's  tendrils  twine, 
And  from  clusters  of  her  vine 
Love  shall  press  his  golden  wine. 

Freely  quaff  that  sparkling  flood  ; 
'Tis  the  heart's  most  precious  blood  ; 
'Tis  the  only  earthl}-  good. 

May  3*ou,  with  those  recorded  here, 
Find  its  currents  bright  and  clear, 
Unalloyed  with  bitter  tear, 

And  beyond  these  clouded  skies, 
When  the  eternal  morn  shall  rise, 
Drink  it  pure  in  Paradise. 


364  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THRENODY. 

0  blessed  Jesus,  how  m}T  heart  is  yearning 

To  clasp  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away  ! 
With  quenchless  sorrow  all  my  soul  is  burning 

To  see,  embrace,  and  hear  them,  if  I  may. 
How  sweet  the  music  of  their  happ}*  voices  ! 

How  dear  the  pattering  of  their  feet  at 
With  ceaseless  billows  all  my  bosom  tosses, 

Lorn  of  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 

1  know  that  from  all  earthly  storms  defended 

Like  tender  lambs  they  fie  upon  thy  breast ; 
No  more  the}7  weep  ;  all  childish  griefs  are  ended  ; 

Safe  folded  in  thy  loving  arms  the}-  rest. 
But,  Lord,  my  eyes  are  dim  with  mists  of  sadness  ; 

My  faith  is  weak,  and  darkness  blots  the  day  ; 
I  cannot  see  the  beautj'  and  the  gladness 

That  crown  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 

Lord,  touch  my  sightless  eyes  that  upward  turning 

Still  fail  with  longing  their  delights  to  see, 
That  healed  and  cleansed  they  may,  with  faith's  discerning, 

Look  on  the  mansions  where  the}*  rest  with  thee. 
Let  the  dark  pinions  of  this  sorrow  nearer 

Bring  thee,  O  Saviour,  to  my  soul,  I  pray ; 
Sweeter  the  richness  of  thy  love  and  dearer 

Because  my  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 

Shrouded  in  darkness,  drinking  down  the  bitter, 

Th}T  love  can  sweeten  even"  scalding  drop  ; 
Thy  smile  can  make  the  murky  midnight  glitter 

With  the  bright  dawning  of  eternal  hope. 
Through  life's  slow  cadence  nevermore  forsaken, 

O  lead  me  in  thy  loving  steps  each  day, 
Till  with  thy  likeness  satisfied  I  waken, 

And  find  the  darlings  thou  hast  called  away. 


T.  P.  Russell  was  the  son  of  a  farmer  in  Plalnfleld.  Having  in  youth  had  the  mis- 
fortune  to  lose  a  leg  by  amputation,  he  learned  the  trade  of  a  tailor.  He  also  taught 
penmanship  and  was"  a  book-keeper  for  some  time  in  the  office  of  the  Claremont 
Manufacturing  Company  In  Claremont.  His  verses  occasionally  appeared  in  the 
newspapers.  The  piece  given  below  was  composed  while  he  was  tending  the  boil 
ing  of  maple  sap  in  the  woods,  it  being  suggested  by  the  falling  of  a  leaf.  He  died, 
while  yet  a  young  man,  In  1850. 


GELE8TIA  8.  GOOD  ALE.  365 

LINES  TO  A  LEAF. 

Why  cling  to  thy  parent  tree,  Old  Leaf — 

When  all  thy  mates  are  gone  ? 
Thou  seems't  like  one,  whom  the  phials  of  grief 

Are  poured  unsparingly  on — 
Thou  remind'st  me  of  man,  whose  head  is  bleached 

By  four-score  winters  and  ten  ; 
Whose  kindred,  the  hand  of  death  has  reached, 

And  turned  unto  dust  again. 

Thou  hast  staid  in  thy  native  place  !  Old  Leaf — 

Till  time  hath  bronzed  thy  face  ; — 
But  soon  thou  must  leave  it,  for  time  is  brief, 

Ere  others  will  take  thy  place  : 
And  'tis  thus  with  man — his  childhood  home 

Is  the  dearest  spot  to  his  heart ; 
He  feels  delight  o'er  its  precincts  to  roam, 

And  a  pang  of  regret  to  part. 

Thou  hast  battled  with  many  a  storm  !  Old  Leaf — 

And  in  many  a  breeze  didst  play, 
While  Time  with  his  sickle  (a  sly  old  thief,) 

Was  reaping  thy  kindred  away. 
And  man  on  the  storm}-  ocean  of  time, 

With  man}*  a  tempest  doth  meet, 
And  zephyrs,  wafted  from  sunnier  climes, 

With  odors  delicious,  replete. 

But  the  days  of  thy  glory  are  past !  Old  Leaf — 

Thy  beauty  hath  faded  away  ; 
Then  strive  not  longer  to  bear  thy  grief, 

But  fall  to  the  ground  and  decay. 
So  man,  when  his  number  of  days  is  past, 

Will  experience  the  common  lot, 
When  the  angel  of  Death  blows  his  summoning  blast, 

He  must  die — be  buried — forgot. 


OMestia  g>. 


Mrs.  Gooclale,  a  daughter  of  John  Mooney,  Esq.,  of  Northfleld,  was  born  in  1829. 
She  was  married  to  John  H.  Goodale,  editor  of  the  Manchester  Democrat,  in  1848, 
and  died  in  1863.  She  was  an  apt  and  accomplished  writer,  largely  aiding1  her  hus 
band  in  his  editorial  work,  and  contributing  many  articles  to  the  Springfield  (Mass.) 
Republican. 


THE  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

Methinks  the  sun  is  brighter,  dear,  than  'twas  a  year  ago ; 
The  flowers  wear  a  richer  hue,  and  time  moves  not  so  slow. 


366  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

This  earth  that  I  have  looked  upon  since  first  I  saw  the  light — 
Sure  it  is  fresher,  lovelier,  now,  than  when  first  spake  from  night. 

The  song  of  birds  is  sweeter,  dear,  than  'twas  a  year  this  time ; 
The  music  of  the  flowing  stream  hath  melody  of  chime. 
The  sunset  wears  a  richer  hue  than  when  I  gazed  alone ; 
The  moon  that  used  to  look  so  cold  has  very  pleasant  grown. 

And  sure  the  heart  that  worshipped  thee,  a  whole  year  long  ago, 
Still  turns  to  thee,  its  idol-shrine,  and  burns  its  incense  low. 
The  world  has  naught  to  charm  away,  from  willing  worship  given  ; 
Why  should  the  spirit  stoop  to  earth,  that  rested  once  in  heaven. 

Our  sky  is  fair,  no  sorrows,  dear,  have  dimmed  its  glory  yet ; 
And  in  its  blue,  so  clear  and  bright,  there  are  no  warnings  set. 
Yet  for  all  this  we  lie  not  down  to  sleep,  when  done  is  life, 
Without  the  drinking  of  the  cup,  without  the  bitter  strife. 

Earth  never  held  the  favored  one  whom  sorrow  has  not  known  ; 
Whose  cup  has  not  been  running  o'er  with  bitter  draughts  alone  : 
And  yet  the  cup  our  Father  gives,  shall  we  not  drink?  In  vain 
The  supplicating  cry  goes  up,  "Spare  us,  O  God,  this  pain  !" 

Yet  wh}'  grieve  now?     Our  hearts,  my  dear,  will  not  grow  cold 

in  need  ; 

We'll  not  forget  the  promise  given  when  light  was  overhead. 
Its  truths  shall  lead  us  on  through  life,  an  angel  in  earth-guise  : 
Shall  it  not  guide  us  to  that  land, — its  home,  beyond  the  skies? 


Btotnell  atfjellis  Huntr. 


Mrs.  Lund,  who  resides  in  Newport,  is  the  wife  of  S.  Frank  Lund,  and  a  daughter 
of  the  late  Seth  Chellis.  She  is  a  native  of  Goshen,  and  is  known  in  the  literary 
•world  as  Mary  DwiuellChellis.  Besides  being  a  voluminous  writer  of  newspaper 
stories  and  sketches,  she  is  the  author  of  over  thirty  books  which  have  had  an  in 
tensive  sale.  These  books  are  found  in  nearly  all  our  Sunday  School  libraries,  ;is 
well  as  in  many  public  libraries.  Several  have  been  republished  in  other  countries. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

Down  in  the  meadow  the  rollicking  fellow 

Singing  and  whistling  from  morning  till  night, 

Loudest  and  clearest  when  sunshine  is  yellow, 
Resting  in  silence  when  fadeth  the  light. 

Swinging  so  gently  when  rocked  by  the  zephyr, 
Pluming  his  feathers  of  sable  and  white, 

Daintiest  dandy  in  carry  June  weather, 

Winning  his  mistress  by  song  and  by  right. 


MARY  DWINELL  CHELLIS  LUND.  3G7 

Apple  blooms,  filling  the  air  with  their  sweetness, 

Tempt  him  to  linger  mid  beauty  so  rare ; 
Short  is  his  staying  ;  with  arrowy  fleetness 

Springs  he  exulting  once  more  to  the  air. 

Grasses  bend  lightly,  and  clover  tops  nodding, 
Greeting  this  songster  of  meadow  and  field  ; 

Careless  and  gleeful,  what  knows  he  of  plodding? 
Reckless  of  danger  the  future  may  yield. 

Music  like  laughter,  or  bells  in  their  chiming, 
Rippling  and  ringing,  half  gifted  with  thought;. 

Echoes  of  gladness  with  merry  hearts  timing, 
Snatches  of  jingle  with  melodj-  fraught. 

Listen  we  often  while  wild  bees  are  humming, 

Eager  to  catch  the  first  notes  of  his  song ; 
Hearing,  rejoicing,  we  welcome  his  coming, 

Herald  of  summer  and  da}-s  that  are  long. 


THE  WATER  SPRITE. 

List  the  water  sprite,  "See  the  bottle  imp, 

Calling  all  the  night,  Long,  and  lank,  and  limp ; 

Calling  all  the  day  ;  See  his  bony  arms, 

"Hear  what  I've  to  say.  See  his  serpent  charms. 

"Come,  3~e  children  dear,  "With  the  chime  of  bells 

To  my  home  draw  near ;  We  will  weave  our  spells, 

I  will  bring  for  you  Till  he  cries  at  last 

Roses  gemmed  with  dew.  'You  have  bound  me  fast.' 

"Come  and  dwell  with  me  "Then  beneath  the  wave 

By  the  ciystal  sea  ;  He  shall  find  a  grave  ; 

I  will  scatter  pearls  While  for  you  and  me 

Mid  your  glossy  curls.  Mirth  and  song  shall  be." 


POEM. 

Affectionately  dedicated  to  Lemuel  Oagood  on  Ms  ninety-first  birthday. 

The  j'ears,  they  are  many,  Dear  brothers  and  sisters 

Full  ninety  and  one  ;  Have  passed  on  before  ; 

This  life  grows  a- weary,  Companions  yet  dearer 

Its  work  almost  clone.  Have  reached  the  far  shore. 

Yet  why  should  we  sorrow  ?  But  glad  are  the  greetings 

Why  grieve  and  despond?  Where  friend  meets  with  friend, 

There's  light  for  the  morrow,  To  join  in  the  praises 

And  glory  beyond.  Which  never  shall  end. 


368  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  roof-tree  which  sheltered     Now  bending  to  listen  ; 

The  mother  and  son  Half  wearied  to  know 

Is  moss-grown  and  hoary  The  words  which  seem  spoken 

With  years  ninetj'-one.  So  softly  and  low. 

The  house  in  the  heavens,  Where  worship  the  ransomed, 

Not  builded  with  hands,  All  nations  shall  hear  ; 

The  house  that  is  waiting,  Each  song  and  hosauna 

Eternally  stands.  Fall  full  on  the  ear. 

The  sunlight  and  shadow,  Now  moving  so  slowly. 

The  mist's  silver  sheen,  Once  stalwart  and  strong  ; 

On  upland  and  meadow  The  footsteps  they  falter ; 

But  dimly  are  seen.  The  march  has  been  long. 

In  city  celestial,  Yet  pass  through  the  portal, 

With  pavements  of  gold,  This  life's  work  well  done  ; 

Forever  and  ever  Youth's  crown  is  immortal, 

New  beauties  unfold.'  Though  ninety  and  one. 


iflarg  IHUjateti)  J^rguson  ISrett 

Miss  Brett  is  a  native  of  Easton,  Mass.  When  she  was  ten  years  of  age  her  par 
ents  removed  to  Gilmanton.  Their  home  there  was  called  "Elmwood,"  from  the 
beautiful  elm-trees  around  it.  She  graduated  at  Gilmanton  Academy,  ami  after 
wards  spent  some  time  at  Mystic  Hall  Seminary,  West  Medford,  Mass.  From  Gil 
manton  the  family  removed  to  Concord,  and  a" few  years  later  to  Newport,  where 
their  home  was  called  "Riverside  Cottage."  For  the  past  ten  years  they  have  re 
sided  in  Boston. 


"BALL'S  BLUFF." 

Oct.  21,  1861. 

Hear  }-e  the  moan  of  the  wind  in  the  trees? 
Know  ye  the  story  that's  told  by  the  breeze  ? 

As  it  sweeps  through  the  vale 

The  leaf,  withered  and  pale, 
And  courser-like  flies  o'er  brown  hill  and  dale. 

Methinks  'tis  the  requiem,  mournfully  breathed 
For  names  that  come  to  us  cypress  enwreathed, 

Of  the  gallant  and  brave 

Who  sank  'neath  the  wave, 
And  found  mid  Potomac's  dark  waters  a  grave  ! 

Oh  fearful  the  tale,  that's  borne  o'er  the  land, 
Of  the  fierce  battle  fray,  the  fight  hand  to  hand, 

While  a  dark,  crimson  flood 

Of  precious  life  blood, 
In  baptismal  drops  on  the  green  earth  is  poured  ! 


MAE  T  ELIZABETH  FEBG  USON  BRETT.  369 

Alas  for  the  }Toung  brow,  where  Death's  seal  is  set ! 
Alas  for  the  veteran,  for  whom  63-68  are  wet ! 

Who  have  fought  side  by  side, 

Who  have  gone  in  their  pride, 
And  for  our  bright  banner  have  bled  and  have  died  ! 

Alas  for  the  dear  ones,  for  whom  the  tear  swells ! 
And  mournfully  sweet  as  the  cadence  of  bells, 

Is  the  memory  we'll  keep, 

Of  them,  as  they  sleep — 
Though  in  desolate  homes,  the  mourner  doth  weep  ! 

Fadeless  the  chaplet,  that  crowns  each  bright  name, 
Of  glory  and  honor  !  and  deathless  the  fame 

Of  that  true,  Spartan  band, 

That  Thermopylae  band, 
Whose  valorous  deeds  have  thrilled  through  the  land  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  FOR  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

Upon  this  "Golden  Wedding"  day, 

With  joj-ous  hearts  we  come, 
Assembling  friends  and  kindred  dear, 

In  the  paternal  home  ; 
The  home  where  passed  life's  sweet  May-time, 

Its  glowing  summer  hours, 
Where  Love  a  sacred  shrine  hath  reared, 

Which  Memory  crowns  with  flowers. 

Within  this  home  for  fifty  j'ears 

Of  changing  light  and  shade, 
Affection's  sunshine — sorrow's  tears — 

Have  grief  or  gladness  made. 
For  fifty  3'ears  !  how  long  the  time  ! 

And  yet  how  quickly  fled, 
To  those  who  here  have  passed  life's  prime ; 

Our  household's  honored  head  ! 

Some  sit  not  at  the  festal  board, 

Whose  names,  in  by-gone  hours, 
Have  been  familiar  household  words — 

They  faded  like  the  flowers. 
Our  hearts  their  memories  green  still  keep — 

They've  only  "gone  before" — 
When  life  is  done,  earth's  parted  meet 

Upon  the  other  shore. 


370  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  on  this  "Golden  Wedding"  day, 

While  autumn  reigns  abroad, 
While  wind-harps  breathe  a  plaintive  lay, 

Our  lips  speak  grateful  words  ; 
Grateful  to  Him  who  spares  so  long 

To  us,  the  friends  we  love, — 
Oh  may  we  meet  to  join  the  song 

Of  shining  ones  above ! 


g?araf) 


Mrs.  Converse  is  a  native  of  Corinth,  Vt.  In  1857,  soon  after  her  marriage  to  Mr. 
P.  M.  Converse,  she  came  to  Lyme,  where  they  still  reside.  Her  poems  have  ap 
peared  occasionally  in  the  Christian  Observer  and  in  the  Morning  Star. 


STANZAS. 

Sweet  Spring,  why  dost  thou  linger? 

O  haste,  and  bring  once  more 
The  gush  of  untold  gladness 

Thou  didst  in  da}*s  of  yore, 
When  life's  first  dreams  of  hope  and  love 
Made  earth  seem  fair  as  heaven  above. 

We  breathed  the  scented  zephyr, 
Where  laughing  streamlets  played, 

And  heard  the  song-bird's  music 
Swell  joyous  from  the  glade, 

In  other  da}-s,  when  spring  came  round, 

With  a  delight  that  knew  no  bound. 

But  since  full  many  a  sorrow 

Hath  bowed  us  to  the  dust, 
And  taught  in  earthly  treasures 

How  dangerous  'tis  to  trust, 
While  Faith  has  soothed  the  spirit  riven, 
By  promise  of  a  home  in  heaven. 

And  in  that  home  of  beauty 
No  wintry  storms  are  known, 

But  free  throughout  its  borders 
Perennial  joys  are  strown  ; 

Still  here  to  toil,  and  hope,  and  pray, 

Gladly  we  linger  life's  brief  day  ; 

And  would  in  childish  gladness 

Bless  God  for  birds  and  flowers  ; 
He  formed  and  gives  them  notice — 


SARAH  S.  CONVERSE.  371 

Can  aught  place  them  'neath  ours? 
Nay,  haste  then,  Spring,  thy  pleasures  new 
Shall  make  our  hearts  to  heaven  more  true. 


TRUE  BEAUTY. 

There's  beauty  in  the  calm  blue  sky, 

Its  fleecy  clouds  of  white  ; 
There's  beauty  in  the  glittering  stars, 

That  gem  the  brow  of  night ; 
Yet  nobler  beauty  in  the  soul 
That  bows  to  wisdom's  grand  control. 

There's  beauty  in  the  day's  soft  close, 
When  thought  bright  circlet  weaves  ; 

There's  beauty  in  the  gorgeous  tints, 
That  dye  the  autumn  leaves  ; 

Yet  richer  beauty  dwells  apart, 

In  the  warm  sympathizing  heart. 

There's  beauty  in  the  morning  ray, 
That  steals  the  last  night's  gloom  ; 

There's  beauty  in  the  mellow  light, 
When  shines  the  silver  moon  ; 

Yet  beauty  sweeter  in  the  eje, 

Whose  love-light  checks  the  rising  sigh. 

There's  beauty  in  the  rippling  streams, 

And  in  the  wild  bird's  song ; 
There's  beauty  in  seolian  strain, 

When  zephj-rs  steal  along ; 
Yet  holier  beauty  in  the  love, 
That  foretaste  given  of  heaven  above. 

There's  beauty  in  sweet  childhood's  home, 
Its  each  heart-cherished  scene — 

The  cosey  nook,  the  shaded  grove, 
The  brook,  the  hillside  green  ; 

But  yet,  methinks  blest  heaven's  clime 

Exceeds  in  beauty  aught  of  time. 


SPRING. 

The  spring  has  come  with  skies  of  blue, 
And  birds  and  leafy  bowers, 

And  glad  I  wander  in  the  grove, 
And  breathe  the  breath  of  flowers ; 


372  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Yet  still  a  feeling  stirs  my  heart 

That  seems  akin  to  pain, 
While  mem'iy  speaks  of  spring-time  joys 

That  ne'er  will  come  again. 

As  joyous  flows  the  silver}'  brook, 

Soft  murmuring  through  the  glade, 
As  when  a  child  I  gaily  stole 

To  this  green  willow's  shade  ; 
Yet  though  as  then  I  gaze  around, 

And  count  earth's  beauties  o'er, 
In  pensive  mood  I  sigh  for  joys 

That  can  be  mine  no  more. 

Once  when  this  happy  season  came, 

And  fragrant  bloomed  the  spray, 
My  gentle  brother  walked  the  vale, 

And  blessed  with  me  the  May ; 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  that  he  loved 

O'er  him  in  beauty  wave, 
For  in  yon  church-yard  low  he  sleeps 

Beside  my  mother's  grave. 

'T\vas  on  May  morning  sweet  as  this 

That  he  in  calmness  died  ; 
The  notes  of  singing  birds  were  gay, 

Through  flowers  the  soft  wind  sighed  ; 
Yet  when  the  love-light  faded  out, 

From  his  deep,  mild  blue  eye, 
I  felt  a  sickness  of  the  soul, 

And  wished  I  too  could  die. 

But  springs  have  come  and  gone  since  then, 

And  time  has  soothed  my  grief. 
And  God  has  taught  the  welcome  truth, 

Earth's  sorrows  all  are  brief; 
Yet  oft,  though  gladness  beams  without, 

The  day  to  me  looks  dim, 
And  my  poor  heart  yearns  for  the  time 

When  I  may  rest  with  him. 


SUfoert  ILaigijton. 


Albert  Laiurhton  was  horn  in  Portsmouth  in  18-29.  lie  resides  in  that  city,  and  is 
connected  in  business  with  the  RockiiiKham  National  Hank.  In  IS.'di  ho  published 
a  volume  of  poems,  and  another  edition, enlarged  and  dedicated  to  his  cousin.  Mr*. 
Celia  Thaxter,  w:is  issued  from  the  press  of  John  Wilson  \  Son,  Cambridge,  in 
isTS.  It  is  an  elegant  volume.  Mr.  Lni^liton  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  New 
Hampshire  poets.  His  poems  are  beautiful  and  liuished  productions,  and  are 
widely  known  and  much  admired. 


ALBER  T  LAIGHTON.  3  73 

TO  MY  SOUL. 

Guest  from  a  holier  world, 
Oh,  tell  me  where  the  peaceful  valleys  lie? 
Dove  in  the  ark  of  life,  when  thou  shalt  fly, 

Where  will  thy  wings  be  furled  ? 

Where  is  thy  native  nest? 

Where  the  green  pastures  that  the  blessed  roam? 
Impatient  dweller  in  thy  clay-built  home, 

Where  is  thy  heavenly  rest? 

On  some  immortal  shore, 

Some  realm  away  from  earth  and  time,  I  know ; 
A  land  of  bloom,  where  living  waters  flow, 

And  grief  comes  nevermore. 

Faith  turns  my  eyes  above  ; 
Day  fills  with  floods  of  light  the  boundless  skies  ; 
Night  watches  calmly  with  her  starry  eyes 

All  tremulous  with  love. 

And  as  entranced  I  gaze, 
Sweet  music  floats  to  me  from  distant  lyres : 
I  see  a  temple,  round  whose  golden  spires 

Unearthly  glory  plays ! 

Beyond  those  azure  deeps 
I  fix  thy  home, — a  mansion  kept  for  thee 
Within  the  Father's  house,  whose  noiseless  key 

Kind  Death,  the  warder,  keeps  ! 


FOUND  DEAD. 

Found  dead  !  dead  and  alone  ! 

There  was  nobody  near,  nobody  near, 
When  the  outcast  died  on  his  pillow  of  stone — 

No  mother,  no  brother,  no  sister  dear, 
Not  a  friendly  voice  to  soothe  or  cheer, 
Not  a  watching  eye  or  a  pitying  tear, — 
Oh,  the  city  slept  when  he  died  alone 
In  the  roofless  street,  on  a  pillow  of  stone. 

Many  a  wear}'  day  went  by, 

While  wretched  and  worn  he  begged  for  bread, 
Tired  of  life,  and  longing  to  lie 

Peacefully  down  with  the  silent  dead  ; 


374  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

Hunger  and  cold,  and  scorn  and  pain, 
Had  wasted  his  form  and  seared  his  brain, 
Till  at  last  on  a  bed  of  frozen  ground, 
With  a  pillow  of  stone,  was  the  outcast  found. 

Found  dead  !  dead  and  alone, 

On  a  pillow  of  stone  in  the  roofless  street ; 
Nobody  heard  his  last  faint  moan, 

Or  knew  when  his  sad  heart  ceased  to  beat ; 
No  mourner  lingered  with  tears  or  sighs, 
But  the  stars  looked  down  with  pitying  eyes, 
And  the  chill  winds  passed  with  a  wailing  sound 
O'er  the  lonely  spot  where  his  form  was  found. 

Found  dead  !  yet  not  alone  ; 

There  was  somebody  near, — somebody  near 
To  claim  the  wanderer  as  his  own, 

And  find  a  home  for  the  homeless  here  ; 
One,  when  every  human  door 
Is  closed  to  his  children,  scorned  and  poor, 
Who  opens  the  heavenly  portal  wide  ; 
Ah,  God  was  near  when  the  outcast  died. 


MY  NATIVE  RIVER. 

Like  an  azure  vein  from  the  heart  of  the  main, 

Pulsing  with  joy  for  ever, 
By  verdurous  isles,  with  dimpled  smiles, 

Floweth  my  native  river ; 

Singing  a  song  as  it  flows  along, 

Hushed  by  the  Ice-king  never  ; 
For  he  strives  in  vain  to  clasp  a  chain 

O'er  thy  fetterless  heart,  brave  river ! 

Singing  to  me  as  full  and  free 

As  it  sang  to  the  dusky  daughters, 

When  the  light  canoe  like  a  sea-bird  flew 
Over  its  peaceful  waters  ; 

Or  when  by  the  shore  of  Sagamore 
The}-  joined  in  their  mystic  dances  ; 

Where  the  lover's  vow  is  whispered  now, 
By  the  light  of  maiden  glances. 

Oil,  when  the  dart  shall  strike  my  heart, 
Speeding  from  Death's  full  quiver, 

May  I  close  m}*  e}'es  where  smiling  skies 
Bend  o'er  rny  native  river. 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON.  37,5 

NEW  ENGLAND. 

What  though  they  boast  of  fairer  lands, 
Give  me  New  England's  hallowed  soil, 

The  fearless  hearts,  the  swarthy  hands 
Stamped  with  the  heraldry  of  toil. 

I  love  her  valleys  broad  and  fair, 

The  pathless  wood,  the  gleaming  lake, 

The  bold  and  rocky  bastions,  where 
The  billows  of  the  ocean  break  ; 

The  grandeur  of  each  mountain  peak 

That  lifts  to  heaven  its  granite  form, 
The  craggy  cliffs  where  eagles  shriek 

Amid  the  thunder  and  the  storm. 

And  dear  to  me  each  noble  deed 

Wrought  by  the  iron  wills  of  yore, — 
The  Pilgrim  hands  that  sowed  the  seed 

Of  Freedom  on  her  sterile  shore. 


EBB  AND  FLOW. 

I  wandered  alone  beside  the  stream  ; 

The  tide  was  out  and  the  sands  were  bare ; 
The  tremulous  tone  of  the  sea-bird's  scream 

Like  a  winged  arrow  pierced  the  air. 

I  roamed  till  the  sun  in  the  west  was  low, 
And  the  robes  of  twilight  trailed  in  the  sea ; 

The  waves  pulsed  in  with  a  rhythmical  flow, 
And  a  song  from  the  woodland  came  to  me. 

All  day  I  roam  by  the  stream  of  Song ; 

The  tide  is  out,  and  my  life  is  bare, 
While  shadows  of  evil  round  me  throng, 

And  drearily  croaks  the  bird  of  Care. 

But  at  night  the  waves  roll  back  again, 

And  flow  in  music  over  my  heart, 
Till  the  dusky  phantoms  of  grief  and  pain 

From  the  charmed  shores  of  my  brain  depart. 


THE  DEAD. 

I  cannot  tell  you  if  the  dead, 
That  loved  us  fondly  when  on  earth, 


376  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Walk  by  our  side,  sit  at  our  hearth, 
By  ties  of  old  affection  led  ; 

Or,  looking  earnestly  within, 
Know  all  our  joys,  hear  all  our  sighs, 
And  watch  us  with  their  hoi}-  eyes 

Whene'er  we  tread  the  paths  of  sin  ; 

Or  if  with  mystic  lore  and  sign, 
They  speak  to  us,  or  press  our  hand, 
And  strive  to  make  us  understand 

The  nearness  of  their  forms  divine. 

But  this  I  know, — in  many  dreams 
They  come  to  us  from  realms  afar, 
And  leave  the  golden  gates  ajar, 

Through  which  immortal  glory  streams. 


BY  THE  SEA. 

A  waning  of  the  golden  lamps 
In  heaven's  eternal  dome, 

A  glimmer  on  the  dusk}*  sands 
(Ghost-like  creeps  up  the  foam)  ; 

A  blended  hue  above  the  waves, — 

The  lily  and  the  rose, — 
A  fleecy  cloud  of  dappled  bloom, 

Like  that  the  pansy  shows  ; 

A  tinge  the  morning-glory  wears, 
With  pearly  dew-drops  wet ; 

A  blush  as  of  the  columbine, 
A  tint  of  violet ; 

And  ever  in  the  brightening  sky, 
Some  changing  splendor  born, 

Till  leaf  by  leaf,  a  perfect  flower, 
Unfolds  the  bud  of  morn. 


FARRAGUT. 

Grand  in  his  dreamless  sleep  our  Admiral  lies, 
The  brave  heart  still,  so  fondly  loved  and  blest ; 

The  light  gone  forth  from  those  prophetic  eyes, 
The  guiding  hand  at  rest. 


BELA  CHAPIN.  377 


His  star  in  glor}-  set — his  great  work  done  ; — 
Muffle  the  drum,  and  toll  the  solemn  bell'; 

And  let  the  deep  voice  of  the  minute-gun 
A  people's  sorrow  tell. 

A  friend  who  failed  not  in  the  darkest  hour  ; 

A  valiant  soul  who  at  his  country's  call 
Battled  with  treason  born  of  hate  and  power, 

And  triumphed  over  all. 

One  noble  life  the  less  for  Heaven  to  take  ; 

One  hero  more  passed  from  this  land  of  ours  ;- 
Lay  fairest  garlands  on  his  bier,  and  make 

Death  beautiful  with  flowers. 

A  nation's  heart  shall  be  his  funeral  urn, 

While  time  shall  add  new  lustre  to  his  fame ; 

And  Freedom's  fires  with  holier  light  shall  burn, 
Where'er  is  breathed  his  name. 


ISela 

Bela  Chapin  was  born  in  Newport,  February  19, 1829.  After  learning  the  trade 
of  printer  in  the  office  of  the  National  Eagle  in  Claremont  he  worked  during  a 
winter  on  the  Northern  Advocate  in  Winchester,  and  a  summer  on  the  American 
News  in  Keene.  He  then  went  to  Meriden  and  pursued  a  course  of  study  about 
three  years  in  Kimball  Union  Academy.  He  went  to  Concord  in  1855,  and  was  em 
ployed  as  foreman  in  the  office  of  the  Crusader  of  Reform,  a  temperance  paper 
which  afterwards  became  the  New  Hampshire  Phoenix.  He  was  subsequently  em 
ployed  in  the  job  printing  office  of  Morrill  and  Silsby ;  in  the  State  Capital  Reporter 
office;  and  for  several  years  as  compositor  in  the  N.  H.  Statesman  office.  He  has 
also  worked  as  journeyman  printer  in  Lebanon,  on  the  Granite  State  Whig;  in 
Newport  on  the  Argus  and  Spectator;  in  Springfield,  Mass.,  on  the  Independent 
American;  and  in  the  "Old  Stone  Mill"  of  the  Claremont  Book  Manufacturing 
Company.  About  1860  he  returned  to  his  native  town,  and  bought  a  farm  where  he 
carried  on  farming  business  till  1866,  when  he  sold  his  homestead  and  removed  to 
Hanover,  where  he  purchased  the  Dartmouth  Press  printing  office  of  Rev.  David 
Kimball,  and  the  book  bindery  of  the  estate  of  B.  D.  Howe.  In  1870,  after  dispos 
ing  of  his  establishment  and  residence  in  Hanover,  he  removed  to  Claremont,  and 
purchased  a  farm  near  the  base  of  Green  Mountain,  where  he  still  resides.  The 
events  of  his  life  have  been  unimportant,  and  much  of  his  time  has  been  spent  in 
his  library.  In  1881  he  formed  a  design  of  collecting  specimen  poems  of  the  New 
Hampshire  Poets,  and  this  volume  is  the  result  of  his  undertaking. 


THE  REALM  OF  RHADAMANTHUS. 

Begemmed  upon  old  Ocean's  breast, 

Where  gentle  billows  swell, 
Lie  the  feigned  islands  of  the  blest, 

Where  souls  departed  dwell. 

Not  in  Cimmerian  gloom  profound, 
Where  ebon  night  pervades, 

But  in  a  realm  where  joys  abound, 
Rest  unsubstantial  shades. 


378  POETS  OF  NEW  IIAMPSHIKE, 

There  in  that  clime,  forever  bright, 
'  The  sun  with  equal  ray 
Illuminates  the  tranquil  night 
And  gilds  the  cloudless  day. 

There  fields  of  asphodel  and  balm 

And  roses  bloom  for  aye  ; 
There  naught  can  mar  the  soul's  sweet  calm, 

And  love  finds  no  deca}'. 

There  hero-shades  with  joy  possess 

An  ever-peaceful  home, 
A  seat  exempt  from  all  excess 

Where  pain  can  never  come. 

There  where  enchanting  beauty  teems 

In  exquisite  delight, 
Mid  citron  groves,  by  crystal  streams, 

Walk  chiefs  of  former  might. 

O'er  those  feigned  isles  no  storms  prevail, 
No  snow  white-drifting  there  ; 

No  raging  blast,  nor  rain,  nor  hail, 
Nor  pestilential  air. 

There  fragrant  breezes,  balmy  airs, 

Pure  offspring  of  the  main, 
Sweep  from  the  isles  corroding  cares 

And  fan  the  lovely  plain. 

There  smiling  fields  afar  extend 

In  living  verdure  new ; 
There  trees  with  fruits  ambrosial  bend, 

With  flowers  of  every  hue. 

There  bright-winged  birds,  on  every  tree, 
Pour  forth  their  dulcet  strains, 

While  mirth,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  glee 
Pervade  the  flowery  plains. 

There  Rhadamanthus  rules  in  trust 

The  realm  of  beings  blest ; 
The  brave,  the  noble  and  the  just, 

They  own  his  high  behest. 

They  who,  in  truth  and  virtue  strong, 

From  guilt's  contagion  pure, 
Did  ever  keep  their  lives  from  wrong, 

Rest  in  the  isles  secure. 


BEL  A  CHAPIN.  379 


There  with  the  honored  gods  so  dear, 

With  them  forever  blest, 
The}"  dwell,  and  pass  from  }'ear  to  }'ear 

Their  tearless  age  of  rest. 

The}-  who  were  once  o'er- fraught  with  care 

And  bowed  beneath  the  load, 
No  heaviness  their  spirits  bear 

In  that  their  last  abode. 

And  they  whose  weary  days  were  spent 

In  penury  and  pain, 
In  sore  disease  and  discontent, 

In  hardship  and  disdain  ; 

And  they  who  were  b}7  scorn  and  pride 

Down-trodden  and  oppressed, 
In  joyfulness  they  all  abide 

Where  woes  cannot  molest. 

And  shades  of  men,  the  wise  and  good, 
Both  old  and  young  are  there, 

Matrons  and  blooming  womanhood, 
And  youths  unwed  and  fair. 

No  toil  is  there,  nor  languishment, 

There  no  deceit  beguiles  ; 
There  pleasure  reigns  and  glad  content 

Within  those  halcyon  isles. 

No  hurt  nor  ill  that  trouble  yields 
Can  reach  that  peaceful  shore, 

But  in  the  sweet  elysian  fields 
Is  bliss  forevermore. 

In  such  a  place  the  Greeks  of  old 

Hoped  after  death  to  rest, 
But  earth  cloth  not  that  region  hold, 

Such  islands  of  the  blest. 


A  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  LYRIC. 

Pleasant  it  is  mid  rural  scenes  to  stray, 

In  the  glad  quiet  of  the  summer  hours  ; 

Pleasant  it  is  in  unfrequented  way 

To  walk  amid  the  leafy  woodland  bowers, 

Where  blossom  to  the  air  unnoticed  flowers, — 

Or  in  green  fields  and  pastures,  where  the  rills 


380  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Flow  over  pebbles,  fed  by  springs  and  showers, — 
And  pleasant  'tis  the  wood-embowered  hills 
To  climb,  for  there  serene  delight  the  bosom  fills. 

Among  the  cone-shaped  spruce-trees,  mid  the  fern 
That  thickly  clad  the  steep  Green  Mountain  side, 
I  climbed  the  zigzag  pathway  to  discern 
The  beautiful  and  lovely  prospect  wide. 
It  was  the  season  of  the  summer-tide, 
A  joj'ful  morning  of  June's  longest  day  ; 
And  soon  I  reached  the  height,  and  there  descried 
Objects  of  beauty,  near  and  far  away, — 
Sweet  fields,  and  groves,  and  streams,  bathed  in  the  morning 
ray. 

There,  'neath  the  covert  of  a  fragrant  pine, 
O'ershaded  with  its  whispering  evergreen, 
Upon  a  mossy  seat  did  I  recline, 
In  the  enjoyment  of  each  pleasing  scene. 
Bland  were  the  breezes,  and  the  sky  serene, 
With  white  clouds  floating  in  the  upper  air, 
Which  like  aerial  ships  did  glide  between 
The  sunbeams  and  the  earth  ;  O,  bright  and  fair 
Did  all  things  seem,  that  day,  around  me  everywhere. 

Adown  the  south,  precipitous  and  steep, 
Untrod  by  man,  sunk  the  declivity  ; 
Rock  upon  rock  seemed  piled  in  wondrous  heap  ; 
And  just  below,  a  grove  of  greenery, 
Of  giant  trees,  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Filled  a  wide  space,  with  boughs  uplifted  high, 
Which  in  the  sunshine  gleamed  enchantingl}- ; 
It  was  a  wealth  of  woods  that  stood  thereby, 
A  sea  of  waving  leaves,  most  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

Above  the  woods  I  listened  to  the  song 
Of  many  a  warbler  mid  the  boughs  below  ; 
Such  notes  of  gladness  from  the  feathered  throng 
As  oft  I  heard  in  da}-s  of  long  ago. 
So  will  it  be  in  years  that  onward  flow, 
And  such  blithe  bird-song  as  I  heard  that  day, 
And  such  fair  flowei's  that  round  my  pathway  grow, 
Will  bless  or  beautify  the  world  for  aye, — 
Will  gladden  and  delight,  when  we  are  passed  awaj-. 

In  the  low  distance,  through  the  fertile  lea, 
There  runs  in  winding  way  1113-  native  stream  ; 
A  thing  of  beauty,  ever  dear  to  me  ; 


BE  LA  CHAPIN. 


A  river  meet  for  an}'  poet's  theme. 
Along  its  banks  unnumbered  flowers  teem  ; 
Along  its  banks  the  spreading  elm  trees  grow  ; 
Its  silver}*  waters  in  the  sunbeams  gleam  ; — 
O,  stream  beloved  !  flow  on,  forever  flow  ; 
Of  thee  fond  memories  spring  up  from  the  long  ago. 

And  thou,  Green  Mountain,  thou  art  ever  dear; 
Thy  drift-worn  ledges,  and  th}r  rocks  of  white, 
Thy  groves  umbrageous,  and  thy  fountains  clear, 
Where  oft  in  boyhood  I,  with  fond  delight, 
Hurried  from  rock  to  rock,  from  height  to  height, 
In  admiration  of  each  object  rare. 
Sweet  mountain  scenes,  for  aye  in  memory  bright ! 
I  love  them  still ;  I  love  the  mountain  air  ; 
I  love  those  rocky  hills,  for  there  is  beauty  there. 


THE  TRULY  BLESSED. 

How  blest,  how  truly  blest  are  they 

Whose  hopes  in  God  abide, 
Who  trust  his  goodness  day  by  day, 

Whatever  may  betide ; 
Who  in  the  Lamb,  their  risen  Lord, 

Have  built  their  faith  secure, 
In  Him  whose  promises  afford 

Foundation  ever  sure. 

If  sore  affliction  be  their  lot, 

And  much  of  body  pain, 
Their  God  will  then  forsake  them  not, 

He  will  their  souls  sustain. 
He  heals  the  wounds  that  sin  has  made 

In  souls  to  him  resigned, 
He  gives  the  contrite  spirit  aid 

And  sanctifies  the  mind. 

For  life's  sad  things  and  tears  of  grief, 

Which  everywhere  abound, 
Sweet  consolation  and  relief 

In  God  is  surely  found. 
He  knows  our  frame,  and  if  in  him 

Our  hopes  of  heaven  rely, 
Though  all  the  joys  of  earth  grow  dim 

He  will  be  ever  nigh. 


382  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  path  in  which  the  just  delight 

To  walk  leads  not  astray  ; 
'Tis  as  a  light  that  shineth  bright 

Until  the  perfect  day. 
God  giveth  grace,  he  giveth  strength 

To  all  his  people  blest, 
And  he  will  help  them  on  at  length 

To  everlasting  rest. 


A  HYMN. 

O  Lamb  of  God,  who  died  for  all, 
Thou  who  didst  die  for  me, 

In  penitence  on  thee  I  call,  — 
Give  me  a  hope  in  thee. 

Amid  the  vanities  of  life, 

Oh,  keep  my  spirit  free 
From  sin's  allurements  and  from  strife, 

And  give  me  peace  in  thee. 

And  may  I  oft  in  worship  sweet 
Before  thee  bend  the  knee  ; 

And  do  thou  guide  my  wayward  feet 
And  grant  me  faith  in  thee. 

Forgive  the  wrong  that  I  have  done, 

Of  whatsoe'er  degree  ; 
And  give  me  grace,  thou  Holy  One, 

To  spend  my  days  for  thee. 

Whatever  ills  my  life  betide, 

Whate'er  is  mine  to  see, 
Oh,  ma}'  I  still  in  hope  abide, 

And  rest  secure  in  thee. 

When  my  departing  hour  is  near, 

Oh,  joyful  may  it  be 
To  cross  death's  stream  devoid  of  fear, 

Upheld,  dear  Lord,  by  thee. 


f^tram  Hatitr  g>pencer. 


II.  L.  Spencer  is  a  native  of  Castleton,  Vt.,  born  in  1829.  In  his  youth  lie  tamrht 
school  in  Unity  and  other  towns  in  Sullivan  Co.  He  removed  to  St.  John,  Nou 
Brunswick,  in  1857,  where  he  is  a  member  of  the  Staff  of  the  St.  John  I);iily  ami 
Weekly  Telegraph,  the  leading  newspaper  of  the  Maritime  Provinces.  While  a  rc.-- 
ident  of  this  State  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Claremont  Eagle  and  the 
Newport  Argus  and  Spectator,  and  to  Sartain's  and  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 


HIEAM  LADD  SPENCER.  333  _ 

(then  under  the  Editorial  supervision  of  Lewis  Gaylord  CJark)  and  to  the  New  York 
Tribune.  In  1850  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  publiohed  by  Phillips,  Sampson  &Co., 
of  Boston.  During  the  last  twenty  years  he  has  contributed  to  the  leading  period 
icals  in  England  and  America,  in  prose  and  verse;  Goldwin  Smith,  in  the  Nation, 
pronounces  him  the  first  of  Canadian  poets.  In  the  spring  of  1883,  he  published 
a  volume  of  travels,  entitled  "Summer  Saunterings  away  down  East"  \vhich  is  a 
work  of  deep  interest  and  much  value.  Mr.  Spencer's  poems  are  tinged  with  a 
melancholy  of  which  those  who  know  him  best  understand  the  origin. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  farewell  ye  granite  hills 

That  tower,  majestic,  proud  and  high, — 
Farewell,  farewell  jre  tinkling  rills 

That  answer  to  the  wind's  soft  sigh ; 
Farewell  ye  skies  so  deep  and  blue, — 

Ye  white  clouds  floating  gaily  there, — 
Farewell  ye  hearts  so  warm  and  true, 

Whose  friendship  I  am  proud  to  share. 

Farewell  ye  rivers  deep  and  clear, 

Entranced  I've  watched  your  silver  tide, — 
Farewell  ye  elms  that  proudly  rear 

Your  branches  by  the  mountain  side  ; 
Farewell  thou  lake  whose  waters  blue 

My  fragile  boat  didst  safely  bear, — 
Farewell  ye  hearts  so  warm  and  true, 

Whose  friendship  I  am  proud  to  share. 

Farewell !  a  fond,  a  last  farewell, 

To  hill  and  valley,  rock  and  grove, — 
I've  loved  you  all,  I've  loved  you  well, 

And  ye  have  all  repaid  my  love  ; 
Farewell  ye  hearts  so  warm  and  true, 

Whose  friendship  I  am  proud  to  share, —  * 
I  will  not  for  remembrance  sue, 

For  well  1  know  your  love  I  bear. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 

A    CHRISTMAS    REVERIE. 

The  coals  grow  brighter  in  the  grate 

As  evening's  dusky  mantle  falls, 
And  dimmer  grow  the  eyes  that  look 

Upon  me  from  these  pictured  walls. 

O,  tender  eyes,  that  into  mine 

From  these  gray  walls  have  looked  for  years, 
I  wonder  if  unto  the  past 

You  turn,  as  mine  turn,  full  of  tears. 


384  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Blind,  blind  with  grief  and  vain  regret, 
I  press  my  head  within  my  hands, 

And  dream,  sweet  Enie,  that  we  walk 
Again  upon  the  white  sea  sands : 

By  willowy  brook  and  ferny  hill, 
By  lilied  lake  and  mountain  hoar, 

Through  groves  of  cedar,  odorous  vales, 
Where  we  shall  walk  no  more,  no  more. 

Well,  you  have  grown  a  woman  now, 
And  I  have  wrinkled  grown  and  gray, — 

December  !  ah,  I  feel  its  blasts, 
While  round  }'ou  bloom  the  flowers  of  May 

Heaven  grant  a  better,  happier  life 

Than  mine  has  been,  your  life  may  be ! 

The  bells  ring  out,  and  how  they  dance 
Below,  around  the  Christmas  tree  ! 


THE  HADJI  SAID. 

The  Hadji  said,  "If  o'er  my  tomb 
Should  grasses  wave  and  roses  bloom, 
And  if  at  times  the  spot  should  be 
Bedewed  with  tears  at  thought  of  me, 
My  rest  would  be  a  blissful  rest, 
And  I  would  count  the  Hadji  blest." 

No  roses  deck  the  Hadji's  grave — 
He  sleeps  beside  a  foreign  wave — 
And  never  woman's  e}'e  grows  dim 
In  that  strange  land  at  thought  of  him  ; 
And  yet  methinks,  the  Hadji's  rest 
Is  quite  as  sweet  as  if  his  breast 
Were  by  a  million  roses  prest, 
And  woman  made  his  grave  her  quest. 


SONNET. 

A  quaint  inscription  of  the  olden  time 

In  letters  rudely  carved  and  choked  with  moss- 

"Our  fearesarepueryle,  our  truste  sublime, 
Lyfe  ys  not  gayiie,  and  death,  yt  ys  not  losse." 

Above  the  sleeper  bloomed  the  fern  and  rose, 
As  if  kind  Nature  would  such  trust  repay, 


HIEAM  LADD  8PENCEE.  335 

And  there  at  morn,  at  noon,  at  evening's  close, 
The  birds  sang  many  a  sweet  and  soothing  lay, 
And  there  we  fondly  thought  the  orb  of  da}T, 
The  moon,  the  stars,  looked  down  with  kindliest  ray. — 

Ah,  heart  at  rest,  be}-ond  the  reach  of  ill ! 
Ah,  slumber  blest,  and  peace  without  annoy  ! 

Not  vain  thy  quest  to  reach  the  Heavenly  Hill, 
The  Sunlit  Land,  the  Emerald  fields  of  Joy. 


SONNET. 

When  Enon  died,  I  cried,  "O  heart,  for  thee 
Nor  sun  shall  shine  nor  flower  e'er  bloom  again !' 
When  Enon  died,  I  cried,  "As  falls  the  rain 

Shall  fall  my  tears  through  all  the  years  to  be  !" 
But  as  he  faded  in  men's  thoughts,  in  mine 

The  recollections  of  the  past  grew  gray  : — 
Doth  it  disturb  that  long,  long  sleep  of  thine 

That  thou  art  thus  forgotten  ?  Enon,  say  ! 

I  see  the  white  sailed  ships  go  down  the  Bay, 
Of  warning  lights  I  catch  the  ruddy  gleam  : 

Upon  my  pillow  wearily  I  l&y 

My. aching  head,  and  through  the  night  I  dream 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  the  ocean  plough, 

Lost  and  forgotten,  Enon,  as  art  thou. 


SONNET. 

So  }*ou  and  I,  with  all  our  joys  and  sorrows, 

Will  never  meet  in  this  wide  world  again  ! 
We  can  anticipate  no  glad  to-morrows, 

And  no  to-morrow's  mingled  grief  and  pain. 

'Tis  true  alas  !  I  know  how  vain,  how  vain 
Our  aspirations  are  !  how  vain  our  fears  ! 

In  life's  stern  battle,  see  the  maimed  and  slain, 
And  who  for  such  have  time  for  sighs  or  tears  ? 

Well,  it  is  well !     The  world  goes  over  and  over, 
And  we  who  smile  to-day,  to-morrow  sigh ; — 

A  marble  monument  or  a  bit  of  clover, 
No  matter  which,  when  'neath  at  rest  we  lie. 

At  rest,  at  rest !  and  echo  answers  "Blest !" 

Blessed  are  we,  for  we  at  last  find  rest. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSIIIEE. 


SONNET. 

It  may  be  thought  my  life  hath  been  of  sorrow 

Full  to  the  brim  !    Of  joy  I've  had  my  share  ; 
Of  grief  I  borrow,  and  of  joy  I  borrow, 

Of  hope  I  borrow,  and  of  blank  despair ! 

To  me  the  sunshine  is  a  cure  for  care, — 
To  me  the  storm  brings  darkness  and  distress ; 

The  garb  that  Nature  wears  I  alwa3rs  wear, 
Give  love  for  love — for  hate  no  tithe  the  less. 

I,  with  the  happ}T-hearted  have  been  glad, 
And  with  the  sorrowing  I  have  sorrowed  too  : 

They  dream  who  say  that  I  am  always  sad, 
Or  that  my  jo}'S  are  overpoised  by  woe  ! 

But  somehow  we  forget  our  joys  while  sorrows  cling, 

And  through  the  years  we  writhe  beneath  their  sting. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

With  eye  suffused  and  heart  dissolved  with  sorrow, 

How  often  I  have  fled  the  realms  of  sleep, 
And  sought,  not  vainly,  from  thy  page  to  borrow 

That  which  forbids  or  eye  or  heart  to  weep  ! 
Thy  "Thanatopsis,"  fraught  with  tenderest  feeling, 

Is  like  a  June  breeze  to  the  ice-bound  heart-; 
To  us,  thy  humble  followers,  revealing 

The  sage,  the  seer,  the  poet  that  thou  art : 
Still  roll  "The  Ages,"  still  "Green  River"  flows, 

And  odorous  blossoms  load  the  "Apple  Tree," — 
Into  "The  Lake"  still  fall  the  fleec}'  snows, 

And  Nature  everywhere,  doth  speak  of  thee. 
Oh,  for  a  poet's  tongue  to  name  thy  name  ! 
But  does  it  matter?  Thine  is  deathless  fame. 


WE  ALL  SHALL  REST. 

The  gray  birds  twitter  about  the  eaves, 
The  May-flowers  bud  'ueath  the  yellow  leaves, 
Green  with  lichens  grow  rock  and  wall, 
And  the  red  buds  burst  on  the  maples  tall. 

By  brook  and  fen  the  willows  bloom, 
And  fill  the  air  with  a  strange  perfume, 
And  here  where  the  sun  rests  warm  on  the  hill, 
The  violet  buds  and  the  pimpernel. 


HIRAM  LADD  SPENCER.  337 


Sing,  for  the  Summer  shall  come  again 
With  its  harvest  of  fruit  and  golden  grain  : 
Sing,  for  at  set  of  the  Autumn  sun 
We  all  shall  rest,  aye,  everyone. 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 

A  hundred  years  ago  the  birds 

Were  singing  as  they  sing  now  ; 
The  fields  were  flecked  with  flocks,  the  flowers 

Were  springing  as  they  spring  now  : 
Men  toiled  as  men  are  toiling  now, 
And  moiled  as  men  are  moiling  now, 
And  groped  as  men  are  groping  now, 
And  hoped  as  men  are  hoping  now, 

And  died  as  men  are  dying. 

One  lived  for  love  and  one  for  gold, 
And  dreams  of  fame  beguiled  one, 
One  basked  in  fortune's  sunn}'  smiles, 

Another  a  reviled  one  ; 
The  moon  looked  down  the  tale  to  hear 
That  still  deceives  the  maiden's  ear, 
And  slander  wove  her  web  of  slime 
Round  man}'  a  heart  in  that  old  time, 
When  years,  as  now,  were  flying. 

A  hundred  years  ago  !  The  graves 
That  mourners  wet  with  weeping, 

The  plough  hath  furrowed — with  their  dead 
All  those  that  wept  are  sleeping : 

Are  sleeping  as  we  soon  shall  sleep,. 

No  more  to  laugh,  no  more  to  weep, 

No  more  to  hope,  no  more  to  fear, 

No  more  to  ask,  why  are  we  here, 
A-weary  and  a-sighing. 


LOVE'S  BURIAL. 

With  folded  wings  and  folded  hands, 
We  laid  him  down  upon  the  sands — 
The  white  sea-sands — one  night  in  June, 
While  o'er  us  shone  the  full-orbed  moon. 

We  made  his  grave  upon  the  beach, 
A  rood  beyond  the  surge's  reach  ! 


388  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

With  buds  and  flowers  of  rosy  dyes, 

We  heaped  his  grave, — with  tearful  eyes  ! 

You  said,  "O  Love  !  that  he  should  die  !" 
You  said,  "O  Love  !  beneath  the  sky, 
Since  Love  is  dead,  what  can  remain, 
But  sorrow,  darkness,  doubt  and  pain  !" 

We  kissed  the  flowers  that  o'er  him  lay  ! 
We  wept  the  lingering  hours  awajr ! 
The  spot  we  haunted  many  a  year, 
With  blinded  eyes  and  hearts  a-sear  ! 

Where  love  lies  buried,  3*011  and  I, 
Though  far  apart,  one  day  shall  lie, — 
Shall  lie  asleep — to  waken  not, 
Our  losses,  like  ourselves,  forgot. 


OLD. 

He  said,  "Are  you  older  than  I  am?" 

And  my  dreams  did  the  question  destroy, 
For  he  called  to  my  memory  Priam, 

Hecuba,  and  Hector  of  Troy  ; 
Is  it  possible  I  am  as  gray  as 

This  antedeluvian  elf? 
That  as  far  from  me  is  the  May  as 

It  is  from  December  itself? 

I  remember  the  home  of  my  childhood, 

The  home  where  no  moan  of  the  sea 
Ever  chilled  the  glad  songs  of  the  wild  wood. 

Or  drowned  the  dull  drone  of  the  bee  ; 
I  remember,  and  it  seems  but  a  day,  too, 

A  day  of  unrest  and  of  pain, 
Since  I  left  it !  O  show  me  a  way  to 

The  home  that  I  loved  so,  again. 

The  home  that  you  loved  so  !  Alas,  dear, 

A  stranger  you'd  meet  at  the  door, 
And  they  peacefully  rest  'neath  the  grass,  dear, 

The  friends  that  you  cherished  of  3'ore  ! 
You  have  dreamed  while  the  j'ears  were  a-flying. 

Forgetting  how  Time  doth  destroy — 
How  living  is  blended  with  dying — 

How  short  is  the  life  of  a  boy. 


EHODA  H.  E.  KENERSON.  389 

.  IB, 

Mrs.  Kenerson  was  an  only  daughter  of  Richard  C.  Everett  of  Newport.  She 
was  born  Aug.  26,  1829.  She  was  educated  in  that  town,  and  became  the  wife 
of  James  M.  Kenerson,  who  removed  with  his  family  to  Wisconsin  in  1856.  Her 
death  occurred  about  1877. 


TO  A  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Thou  of  the  mournful  melody,  thou  of  the  plaintive  strain, 
O  why,  through  all  the  starry  hours,  why  chant  that  sad  refrain  ? 
Dost  never  wake  thy  sad  sweet  voice  to  numbers  blithe  and  gay  ? 
Say  canst  thou  sing  no  other  song,  save  this  one  mystic  lay  ? 
Art  thou  some  spirit  brooding  now  o'er  unforgotten  wrong, 
That  thus  you  haunt  the  summer  night  with  darkly  mournful  song*? 
Hast  done  some  dark  unhallowed  deed,  that  fills  thee  with  unrest? 
Say,  art  thou  doomed  forever  from  the  regions  of  the  blest? 
That  even  in  the  tranquil  night,  and  when  the  storm  sweeps  by, 
We  hear  thy  drear  lamenting  song,  thy  wild  despairing  cry  ? 
Go  back  to  your  green  bowers  again,  O  bird  so  sad  and  lone ; 
I'm  weary  of  your  plaining  voice,  your  wild  and  moaning  tone. 
It  seemeth  like  an  evil  thing,  your  weird  and  boding  lay ; 
Farewell,  0  sorrowing  stranger  bird,  hence  to  the  woods  away. 


MOONBEAMS. 

Part  the  curtains  from  the  lattice,  open  wide  the  cabin  door, 
Let  the  silvery  moonbeams  enter,  let  them  flood  the  cabin  floor. 
For  I  know  that  the}'  are  shining,  as  of  old  they  used  to  shine, 
On  that  mountain-buried  hamlet — on  that  dear  old  home  of  mine. 
Let  them  fall  upon  my  tresses,  let  them  fall  upon  my  brow ; 
I  am  thinking,  I  am  thinking  of  another  time  than  now. 
Nay,  now,  do  not  light  the  taper,  do  not  break  the  spell  too  soon, 
For,  believe  me,  there  would  never  in  the  glaring  light  of  noon, 
Such  a  host  of  tender  mem'ries,  throng  around  my  heart  and  brain, 
Of  the  happy  days  departed,  that  will  never  come  again. 
Haifa  score  of  years  are  falling,  from  this  world-worn  heart  of  mine, 
As  I  sit  and  weave  these  visions  where  the  pearly  moonbeams  shine. 
And  my  footsteps  seem  to  wander,  mid  the  haunts  of  other  days, 
Where  a  phantom  throng  is  gathered,  and,  before  my  eager  gaze, 
Rise  the  old  familiar  faces  of  the  cherished  ones  and  dear, 
And  I  meet  the  olden  glances,  and  the  olden  voices  hear. 
Let  the  silent  footsteps  enter,  let  the  haunting  faces  come ;      • 
Let  the  cadence  of  the'ir  voices  linger  round  my  lowly  home. 
For  my  rude  and  simple  cabin,  like  a  thing  of  beauty  seems ; 
Like  Aladdin's  fairy  palace,  fraught  with  my  fantastic  dreams. 


390  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Etmotljg  |Jerrj>. 


Timothy  Perry  was  born  In  New  Ipswich,  Nov.  7, 1829.  He  was  educated  in  the 
schools  and  in  the  Academy  of  his  native  town,  and  WM  afterwards  tNttfeer  <>f 
mathematics  in  the  Academy.  He  studied  law  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  where  he  is  still 
practicing  his  profession. 


OF  MAY  AND  OF  ME. 

She  is  an  angel  now,  She  is  an  angel  now, — 

Resting  at  home  ;  She  that  was  mine  ! 

Perth's  weary  paths,  her  feet  Wreathed  is  her  seraph  brow 

No  longer  roam.  With  joy  divine. 

But  I  am  sad  and  lonely  here,  But  I  am  sad  and  lonely  here, 

With  grief  oppressed  ;  And  nought  is  given 

The  way  I  tread  is  rough  and  But  the  poor  solace  of  a  tear, 

drear,  And  hope  of  heaven. 

I  have  no  rest.  She  ig  an  ange]  ^^ 

She  is  an  angel  now,  Dwelling  at  home  ; 

Dwelling  in  light ;  Soon  may  I  too  be  there, 

Glory  ineffable  Never  to  roam. 

Greets  her  glad  sight.  Then  no  more  sad  and   lonely 

lint  I  am  sad  and  lonely  here,  here, 

And  faith's  dim  eye  With  grief  oppressed, 

Sees  scarce  a  single  ray  to  cheer  But  in  some  bright  angelic  sphere 

The  darkened  sky.  Forever  blest ! 

TO  THE  ROBIN  SINGING  IN  THE  STORM. 

Why  O  songster  singing  sweetly 

When  the  eastern  gale  is  high, 
And  cold  winter  frowns  so  sternly, 

Why  so  happ}' — tell  me  why  ! 

See  you  not  your  bright  hopes  blasted, 

See  you  not  the  angry  sky  ? 
Feel  }'ou  not  the  icy  tempest  ? 

Why  so  happy — tell  me  why  ! 

Withered  forests,  fields  all  snow-bound, 

Only  meet  your  wistful  eye  : 
Why  amid  such  desolation 

Why  so  happy — tell  me  wh}* ! 

When  no. sunshine  smiles  about  you, 

When  no  sheltering  rock  is  nigh, 
When  no  fellow-songster  cheers  you, 

Why  so  happ}' — tell  me  why ! 

Thus  I  questioned  of  the  songster, 
Singing  when  the  gale  was  high, 


JOHN  OEDRONAUX.  391 


And  cold  winter  raged  about  him  ; 
Still  he  gave  me  no  reply. 

But  he  taught  my  soul  a  lesson 
Which  I  may  not  soon  forget, 

And  although  no  words  were  spoken 
I  can  hear  the  counsel  yet  :  — 

When  the  skies  are  dark  and  lowering, 
When  the  furious  tempests  roar, 

I  will  smile  and  hope  and  labor, 
Hope  and  labor  evermore. 


John  Ordronaux,  LL.  D.,  was  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1850,  and  from 
Harvard  Law  School  in  1852.  He  was  lecturer  on  Medical  Jurisprudence  in 
Dartmouth  Medical  College  from  1S64  till  1873,  when  he  became  profegsor  of  that 
branch  of  medical  science.  Trinity  College  conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  LL.  D., 
in  1859.  Although  Professor  Ordronaux  does  not  claim  to  be  "a  poet  or  the  son  of  a 
poet"  yet  the  few  poems  he  has  written  afford  conclusive  evidence  of  his  great 
ability  as  a  writer  of  verse  both  in  Latin  and  in  English. 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  TEMPTER. 

"Simon,  Simon,  behold  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  you,  that  he  may  sift  you  as 
wheat.    But  I  have  prayed  for  thee,  that  thy  faith  fail  not." — Luke  xxii.,  31,  32. 

Some  shadow  crosses  every  day 

The  sun-path  of  our  Christian  way ; 

Some  shadow  of  the  Evil  One 

Pursues  our  steps  from  sun  to  sun, 

Intent  to  put  our  faith  to  rout, 

When  chilled  beneath  the  breath  of  Doubt. 

One  shadow  steals  the  threshold  o'er 

Wherever  Faith  unbars  her  door, 

And  brings  the  thought — what  if  in  death, 

The  soul  should  perish  with  the  breath  ? 

It  is  the  shadow  of  Distrust, 

How  we  can  rise  in  Christ  from  dust. 

Another,  like  a  twilight  haze, 
Obscures  e'en  learning's  brightest  days  ; 
The  shadow  of  that  sceptic  lore 
Which  doth  an  unknown  God  adore, 
Content,  through  pride  of  outward  sight, 
To  find  in  nature  all  its  light. 

Another  whispers — Mind  is  free 
To  censure  an  unjust  decree  ; 
Behold,  yon  sinner's  lot  seems  blest, 
While  'round  him  saints  are  sore  distressed  : 


392  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

How  can  we  in  a  Ruler  trust 

Whose  judgments  reason  proves  unjust? 

Thus  sin  forever  in  our  breast 

Sows  seeds  of  treason  and  unrest ; 

To  make  us  gauge  by  finite  sense 

Th'  unl'athomed  depths  of  Providence  ; 

And  daily,  with  Satanic  art, 

At  Faith  unguarded,  wings  a  dart. 

Beneath  such  shadows  shame  that  we 
Should  let  our  faith  thus  vanquished  be ; 
Like  babes  at  night,  in  deep  alarm, 
Though  sheltered  by  a  parent's  arm  ; 
How  can  we  tremble  in  unrest 
When  pillowed  on  a  Saviour's  breast? 

Yet  'neath  some  shadow  oft  I  wait, 
Like  blind  Bartimeus  at  the  gate ; 
Assured  that  when  my  Lord  draws  nigh, 
Sin,  doubt,  and  darkness  all  shall  fly. 
Hence  to  His  cross  I  cling  the  more, 
Whene'er  these  shadows  touch  my  door. 

THE  CHANT  OF  THE  PILGRIM. 

"Thy  statutes  have  been  my  songs  In  the  house  of  my  pilgrimage."— Ps.  119 :  54. 
A  wear}7  pilgrim,  laden  sore, 
I  long  to  rest  on  Canaan's  shore, 
Where  I  shall  tread  in  dust  no  more 

Life's  treacherous  road. 
My  cross  at  times  I  scarce  could  bear, 
Did  not  my  Saviour's  loving  care 
Extend  an  heav'nly  arm  to  share 

My  grievous  load. 

I  see  it  not — for  sight  is  dim, 

Yet  know,  through  faith,  it  comes  from  Him 

Who  rules  o'er  hosts  of  seraphim 

In  God-like  reign. 
And  somehow  feel  no  earthly  arm 
Could  give  such  strength,  or  pour  such  balm, 
For  I  have  tried  each  sov'reign  charm 

Of  earth  in  vain. 

My  threadbare  suit  and  sandals  worn, 
From  which  the  world  recoils  in  scorn, 
He  heedeth  not — the  man  forlorn 
Is  all  He  sees. 


JOHN  OEDEONAUX.  393 

The  sinner  bruised  is  all  He  knows, 
The  pilgrim  reeling  'neath  the  blows 
Of  Satan's  darts — to  such  He  goes 
To  offer  ease. 

For  when  in  darksome  ways  I've  strayed, 
Crossed  fens,  or  swollen  streams,  dismayed, 
Still  o'er  me  shone,  through  gloom  and  shade, 

His  saving  light ; 

One  single  beam,  so  faint,  so  small,  *J 
I  scarcely  knew  it  shone  at  all, 
Till  I  looked  up,  when  lo !  night's  pall 

Blushed  rub}*  bright ! 

What  if  that  light  were  veiled  from  me? 
What  if  I  lost  my  chart  at  sea, 
And  tempests  raged  and  rocks  a-lee 

My  soul  did  fright? 
O  wondrous  Love  !  O  Grace  Divine  ! 
O  Star  of  Hope !  still  on  me  shine, 
Nor  this  poor  wand'ring  soul  consign 

To  endless  night. 

Full  long  my  weary  feet  have  trod 
Towards  the  great  city  of  my  God, 
Nor  have  I  fainted  'neath  His  rod, 

When  scourged  by  strife  ; 
Full  long  pursued  the  Eastern  star 
Which  shines  from  Bethlehem's  sky  afar, 
Nor  quailed  before  whate'er  would  bar 

The  way  to  life  ! 

Still,  still  unclimbed  is  Pisgah's  height, 
Unviewed  fair  Beulah's  land  of  light, 
While  age's  fast  descending  night 

Doth  on  me  rest ; 
Yet  ne'er  shall  age  nor  time  abate 
My  zeal  to  reach  the  heav'nly  gate, 
Where  saints  with  boundless  joy  await 

The  pilgrim  guest. 

Lord  !  help  the  pilgrim  on  his  wa}r, 
Help  him,  when  weary  in  the  fray, 
With  trust  unfalt'ring  still  to  say, 

Thy  will  be  done  ; 
Then,  howe'er  stricken,  aged,  sore, 
I'll  bear  m}-  Cross  with  joy  once  more, 
Nor  rest,  until  at  Canaan's  door, 

My  Crown  is  won. 


394  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

ODE  FOR  THE  DARTMOUTH  CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION. 

Hail  Dartmouth — Mother  dear !  Names  that  in  church  and  state. 
Whom  all  the  arts  revere,  Immortal  fame  await, 

Crowned  with  time's  bays.      And  thine,  in  turn,  translate 
Gathered  from  far  and  near,          To  ages  gray. 
See,  all  thy  sons  appear, 
Fair  youth,  and  patriarch  sere,  Sprung  from  a  kindred  stem,' 

Hymning  thy  praise.  Stnve  we  to  follow  them> 

In  high  estate ; 
Not  conquests  of  the  earth,        Life>s      th  with  deedg  to  strew? 

]Sor  hoarded  wealth  gave  birth  Enduring  ages  through  ; 

lo  fame  like  thine  ;  TQ  Chrigt  and  connt      t 
But  wisdom  dwelling  here,  Whate'er  our  fate. 

To  mould  each  youth  s  career, 

For  any  part  or  sphere  From  mountains  and  from  shore, 

God  might  design.  We  throng  these  halls  once  more, 
One  hundred  years  of  grace,          A  legion  vast. 

Praise  Him  !  have  changed  the  Once  more>  as  here  we  tend, 

place  Our  prayers  to  God  ascend, 

Our  fathers  knew.  May  days  to  come  transcend, 
The  hoary  wilderness  Thy  glorious  past. 

Blooms  in  a  Christian  dress  ;  -r, 

The  muses'  feet  now  press  Farewell  ' ,  rfhou  m°ther  dear ; 

Where  forests  grew.  Sta/  j*  **  Prou(*  cfecr' 

Earth  knows,  and  sky. 

Forth  from  these  halls  have  What's  one  brief  century 

passed  Of  thy  great  destiny, 

Names  that  were  born  to  last  To  teach  a  people  free, 
While  time  holds  sway  ;  Their  mission  high  ! 

GUIDE  ME,  0  THOU  GREAT  JEHOVAH. 

RENDERED  INTO  LATIN. 

Me,  fer,  Tu  potens  Jehovah,  Quum  Jordanis  ero  vadis, 
Peregrinum  in  deserto,  Ab  pallente  metu  parce, 

Labor  sed  in  Te  vis  tota,  Strages  Mortis  !  Victor  Hadis  ! 
Forti,  tolle  me,  lacerto.  Me  ccelesti  due  in  arce.  < 

Panis  coeli !  Panis  coeli !  Carmen  laudis  !  carmen  laudis  ! 

Pasce  me  per  cursum  aevi.  Jesu  !  dabo  cum  vi  cordis. 

Sit  aperta  speciosa,  Meditans  domo  de  nostro, 

Fons  qfto  lympha  vivensfluat,      Volvrens  sedes  sacras  coeli. 

Fac  ut  nubes  luminosa,  Replet  cor  cum  sancto  voto, 

Me  per  vitam  semper  ducat.       Veni  Jesu  !  cit6  veni ! 

Numen  tutum  !  Numen  tutum  !  Vana  tantCim  cerno,  Tecum 

Esto  mi,  nunc  vires,  scutum  !     Jesu  !  maneam  per  a>vum. 


SUSAN  F.  COLGATE.  395 

WHILE  THEE  I  SEEK,  PROTECTING  POWER. 

RENDERED    INTO    LATIN. 

Donee  Te,  tutorem  Patrem,  In  quacunque  laetor  hora, 

Quaero,  vana  vota  distent  ;  Quisquis  luctus  adventabit, 

Horam  nunc  sacrificalem  Cor  laudabit  ad  majora, 

Meliores  spes  assistant.  Orans,  aut  se  prosternabit. 


divus  amor  putare  Quum  Fortuna  ml  ridebit, 
Fecit  me.     De  Te  putarem  ;       Tune  Tuam  amorem  volvam, 

Tu  per  vitam  me  tutare,  Mutum,  nlli  me  pigebit, 
Te,  clementem  adorarem.  Me  Tibi  servum  agnoscam. 

En  !  Tua  per  cuncta  patet  Supi'a  spectans,  nunquam  flebo, 
Dextra  regens  me  securum  ;       Si  tempestas  ingravescet  ; 

Et  bonum,  mihi  plus  valet  Forti  corde,  non  timebo, 
Cordi  quod  ab  Te  tributum.       Nam,  in  Te,  cor  requiescet. 


g>usan 


Mrs.  Colgate  is  a  native  of  New  London,  anil  an  only  daughter  of  the  late  Gov 
ernor  Anthony  Colby.  She  was  educated  at  the  academy  in  her  native  town,  and 
became  a  successful  teacher.  Mr.  Colgate  is  a  lawyer  of  New  York  city.  They 
reside  at  Yonkers,  N.  Y. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE  HILLS. 

New  Hampshire  hills  !  New  Hampshire  hills  ! 
Ye  homes  of  rocks  and  purling  rills, 
Of  fir-trees,  huge  and  high, 
Rugged  and  rough  against  the  sky, 
With  joy  I  greet  your  forms,  once  more 
My  native  hills,  beloved  of  3'ore. 

Engraved  upon  my  youthful  heart 
With  keener  point  than  diamond's  art, 
I  see  you  when  the  world's  asleep 
And  memory  wakes,  with  fancies  deep, 
Visions  of  scenes,  though  old,  still  new, 
Then  lost  in  dreams,  I  gaze  on  you. 

New  Hampshire  hills  !  New  Hampshire  hills  ! 
The  electric  sound  my  spirit  thrills, 
With  thoughts  of  childish  ecstasies, 
And  dreams  of  glorious  symphonies, 
While  now,  as  then,  I  see  you  stand, 
Erect  to  guard  our  granite  land. 


396  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I've  watched  you,  at  the  early  dawn, 
Before  the  shades  of  night  had  gone, 
Arrayed  in  robes  of  soft  gray  mist, 
Before  the  sun  your  brow  had  kissed, 
Then  laying  this  pure  vest  aside, 
Stand,  nobly  dressed  in  royal  pride. 

I've  seen  you  in  the  moon's  full  light, 
When  every  dell  was  brought  to  light ; 
When  rock  and  leaf  and  crag  lay  bare, 
Suffused  with  gleaming,  glint  and  glare, 
Then  blent  with  tints  that  knew  no  name, 
Thy  hues  and  dyes  seemed  all  the  same. 

I've  watched  you  when  departing  day 
Shed  o'er  your  forms  a  softer  ray, 
Empurpling  all  your  verdure  o'er 
With  richer  hues  than  e'er  before  ; 
Then  touching  quick  your  peaks  with  gold, 
Too  glorious  made  you  to  behold. 

I've  loved  you  when  the  moon's  mild  beams 
Shed  lights  and  shades  on  hills  and  streams, 
Too  strange,  mysterious,  dark  and  bright, 
For  realms  designed  for  human  sight ; 
In  silence  then,  I've  stood  amazed, 
And  lost  to  all  but  you  have  gazed. 

New  Hampshire  hills  !  New  Hampshire  hills  ! 
The  sight  of  3*011  my  spirit  fills 
With  raptures  such  as  minstrels  feel, 
When  at  the  shrine  of  love  they  kneel, 
And  all  aglow  with  poet's  fire, 
Strike  with  delight  the  living  lyre. 

New  Hampshire  hills  !  New  Hampshire  hills  ! 
Sweet  peace  and  health  }-our  air  distils, 
As  fresh  as  when  the  earth  was  new, 
And  all  the  world  was  good  and  true ; 
Emblems  ye  are  of  royal  state  ; 
Majestic  hills,  bold,  grand  and  great. 

New  Hampshire  hills  !  New  Hampshire  hills  ! 
Your  presence  every  passion  stills, 
And  hushed  to  peace  I  long  to  press 
Far  up  your  heights  of  loveliness, 
And  stand,  the  world  beneath  my  feet, 
Where  earth  and  heaven  enraptured  meet. 


NATHAN  FEANKLIN  GAETEE.  397 

Nathan  jFranfclin  Carter. 

Rev.  N.  F.  Carter  was  born  in  Henniker,  Jan.  6, 1830.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth 
College  in  1853,  and  was  Principal  of  the  High  School  in  Exeter  during  nine  years 
ending  in  1864.  In  1865  he  graduated  at  the  Theological  Seminary  in  Bangor,  Alainc, 
and  was  ordained,  as  a  Congregational  minister,  in  North  Yarmouth  in  that  state, 
where  he  remained  till  1869,  when  he  became  pastor  of  a  church  in  Orford,  and  con 
tinued  there  till  1874.  He  then  went  to  Bellows  Falls,  Vt.,  and  in  1879  to  Quechee, 
Vt.,where  he  now  labors.  Mr.  Carter  has  written  many  articles,  poems  and  sketches, 
for  magazines  and  newspapers.  He  was,  for  several  years,  one  of  the  editors  of 
the  N.  H.  Jouriuil  of  Education. 


IN  THE  SUNSHINE. 

On  the  sunn}-  side  of  life,  for  those  that  love  me, 

I  am  gladly  working,  praying,  still, 
With  a  kingly  banner  flying  high  above  me,  . 

Symbol  of  a  Heavenly  Master's  will ! 
So  with  cheerful  heart  I  bear  my  daily  crosses, 

In  the  sunshine  of  my  daily  joy, 
Never  counting  duty's  self-denying  losses, 

In  such  holy,  sweet  and  blest  employ  ; 
For  His  presence  brightens  all  the  way, 
And  I  know  I'm  climbing  up  to  day  ! 

In  the  shadowed  valley,  on  the  clouded  mountain, 

On  the  dry  and  sandy  summer  plain, 
In  the  tangled  forest,  by  the  cooling  fountain, 

On  the  shore-land  of  the  roaring  main  ; — 
I  rejoice  to  make  my  pathway  like  a  shining 

Light  of  ever-gladdening,  brightening  ray, 
All  around  my  gleaming  footprints,  gem-like,  twining 

Love's  sweet  ministries  to  bless  the  day, 
Wooing  others  up  the  sunny  slopes, 
Leading  to  the  heaven  of  golden  hopes  ! 

On  the  sunny  side  of  life  I'm  nightly  lying 

In  the  restful  arms  of  sweet  content, 
With  the  self-same  royal  banner  o'er  me  flying, 

Gemmed,  like  stars  in  the  blue  firmament ; 
And  I  smile  on  corning  shadows  thickly  folding 

Dusky  wings  above  my  pillowed  head, 
For  I  know  God's  angels,  ever  holding 

Silent  watch  around  my  lowly  bed, 
Guard  me  well,  as  guard  they  saintly  throngs 
In  the  blessed  summer-land  of  songs  ! 

Not  that  I  am  ever  free  from  daily  trials, 

Like  the  glorified  to  whom  I  go ; 
Not  that  on  m}*  head  are  never  poured  the  vials 

Malice  fills  with  bitterness  and  woe, 


398  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Filling  all  my  soul,  as  streams  the  heaving  ocean, 
With  the  fretting,  moaning  waves  of  pain  ; 

Not  that  e'er  against  me  waves  of  wild  commotion. 
In  their  direst  madness  beat  in  vain  ; 

Not  that  sin  has  lost  its  power  to  harm  ; 

Not  that  life  is  one  perennial  charm  ! 

But  I  know  full  well  that  all  things  work  together, 

Under  love's  sweet  ruling,  for  my  good  ; 
Know  as  well  the  winter,  as  the  summer  weather, 

Conies  with  blessing  as  an  angel  would  ; 
So  in  woi'king,  resting,  so  in  waking,  sleeping, 

Wears  this  changing  world  a  smile,  or  frown, 
I  have  trust  in  One  who  has  me  in  his  keeping, 

And  with  jo}'  press  upward  to  my  crown  ; 
So  serene  with  sunshine,  every  day 
Passes,  like  some  strain  of  song,  away  ! 


GREAT  THOUGHTS. 

Great  thoughts  in  mighty  souls  born  into  life, 

Like  towering  mountains  lean  against  the  sky, 
Their  radiant  summits  far  above  all  strife, 

Fixing  with  wonder  man3T  a  gazer's  eye. 
So  far  above  the  common  level  rise 

Their  morn-empurpled  heights,  they  fill  the  soul 
With  awe  and  reverence,  till,  in  mute  surprise, 

It  deems  them  altars  near  the  Eden  goal, 
Whereon  the  incense  of  a  great  life  burns, 

Diffusing  sweetest  fragrance  evermore  ; 
Or  glow  life  watch-fires,  blessing  him  who  yearns 

For  trusty  guidance  on  Time's  pilgrim  shore  ! 

The  lowly  one  toils  earnestly  and  long 

To  climb  their  steep  but  ever  verdant  sides, 
Yet,  rising  higher,  he  feels  his  heart  grow  strong 

To  mount  where  everlasting  spring  abides  ; 
To  gather  holier  sweets  distilling  there  ; 

To  see  serener  prospects  yet  unknown  ; 
To  breathe  a  purer  life-awakening  air, 

And  find  himself  a  nobler  being  grown. 
And  thus  he  presses  on,  till  victor-crowned, 

Upon  the  heights,  he,  with  enraptured  ken, 
Drinks  in  the  vastness  of  the  scene  around, 

A  better  man  among  earth's  worthy  men  ! 


NATHAN  FRANKLIN  CARTER.  399 

And  these  great  thoughts  of  mighty  souls  are  ours, 

Stamped  with  a  time-long  immortality  ; 
A  gift  ne'er  growing  old,  whose  greatness  towers 

Above  all  gifts  by  gold  or  fame  made  free, 
We  feast  upon  them,  as  on  viands  rare, 

And  feel  a  newer  life  spring  up  within. 
They  give  the  longing  spirit  wings  to  dare 

A  loftier  flight  for  good  we  fain  would  win. 
Their  influence  wakes  a  hymn  of  blessedness, 

Sounding  a  victor's  psean  in  our  ears, 
Whose  sweet  refrains,  enshrined  in  good  deeds,  bless 
*A  plodding  world,  as  stars  a  night  of  years  ! 


IN  THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  battle  of  life  do  the  best  that  is  in  thee, 

Climb  up  with  a  will  and  an  eye  on  the  stars, 
The  noblest  of  names  aspiring  to  win  thee, 

At  the  price,  if  need  be,  of  perils  and  scars ! 
There  is  room  in  the  radiant  spaces  above  thee  ; 

On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  are  conquerors'  palms ; 
Live  grandly  for  God, — make  the  great  world  love  thee, 

For  the  sowing  of  sunshine  and  giving  of  alms ! 

Grow  virtues  and  graces  to  ripen  for  glory ; 

Seek  riches  and  honors  that  pass  not  away  ; 
With  irftinifold  blessings  make  golden  life's  story  ; 

For  the  good  of  humanity  labor  and  pray  ! 
Be  a  peer  and  a  prince  in  the  grace  of  forgiving ; 

Keep  ever  to  pathways  the  saintly  have  trod  ; 
In  love  with  the  good,  be  the  best  of  the  living ; 

Do  the  best  for  the  world  by  the  favor  of  God ! 

With  a  bold,  brave  heart,  and  a  holy  endeavor, 

Girt  surely  and  well  with  an  armor  divine, 
Press  on  to  the  conflict,  surrendering  never 

To  the  foes  that  confront  thee  in  darkening  line  ! 
What  is  servile  and  grovelling  heartily  scorning, 

With  an  eye  on  the  prize,  not  a  moment  delay, 
But  valianthy  press  to  the  Gates  of  the  Morning, 

And  live  in  its  fulness  of  glory  for  aye  ! 


LOVING  HEARTS. 

A  pleasant  sight  are  clear  blue  skies, 
When  soft  winds  cheer  us  on  to  duty  ; 


400  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Above,  glad  visions  for  the  eyes, 
Around,  a  world  of  growing  beauty. 

The  world  is  wide,  the  world  is  bright, 
O  tell  to  all  the  story, 

The  world  is  full  of  living  light, 
The  world  is  full  of  glory  ! 

A  merry  heart  and  smiling  face 

Are  better  far  than  sunny  weather ; 
A  noble  life  and  forms  of  grace, 

Like  leaves  and  flowers,  grow  well  together. 
The  world  is  dark,  the  world  is  cold, 

O  tell  to  all  the  storj', 
But  loving  hearts  in  }'oung  or  old, 

Can  fringe  its  night  with  glory  ! 


I&tma  33ean  proctor. 


Miss  Proctor  Is  a  native  of  Henniker.  On  completing  her  school  education  she 
made  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  her  home,  where  she  still  resides.  A  volume  of  her  poems, 
published  in  1867,  fixed  her  rank  amongst  the  foremost  of  American  female  poets. 
She  has  travelled  extensively  in  Europe,  Syria,  and  llussla,  and  has  ascended  the 
Nile.  An  account  of  her  travels  in  Russia  was  published  in  1873. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  MAID. 

O  the  Mountain  Maid,  New  Hampshire  !     . 

Her  steps  are  light  and  free, 
Whether  she  treads  the  lofty  heights 

Or  follows  the  brooks  to  the  sea ! 
Her  eyes  are  clear  as  the  skies  that  hang 

Over  her  hills  of  snow, 
And  her  hair  is  dark  as  the  densest  shade 

That  falls  where  the  fir-trees  grow — 
The  fir-trees,  slender  and  somber, 

That  climb  from  the  vales  below. 

Sweet  is  her  voice  as  the  robin's, 

In  a  lull  of  the  wind  of  March, 
"Wooing  the  shy  arbutus 

At  the  roots  of  the  budding  larch ; 
And  rich  as  the  ravishing  echoes 

On  still  Franconia's  Lake, 
When  the  boatman  winds  his  magic  horn, 

And  the  tongues  of  the  wood  awake, 
While  the  huge  Stone  Face  forgets  to  frown 

And  the  hare  peeps  out  of  the  brake. 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  4Q1 

The  blasts  of  dreary  December 

But  brighten  the  bloom  on  her  cheek, 
And  the  snows  rear  her  statelier  temples 

Than  to  goddess  were  built  by  the  Greek. 
She  welcomes  the  .fervid  summer, 

And  flies  to  the  sounding  shore 
Where  bleak  Boar's  Head  looks  seaward, 

Set  in  the  billows'  roar, 
And  dreams  of  her  sailors  and  fishers 

Till  cool  days  come  once  more. 

Then  how  fair  is  the  Maiden, 

Crowned  with  the  scarlet  leaves, 
And  wrapped  in  the  tender,  misty  veil 

That  Indian  Summer  weaves  ! 
While  the  aster  blue,  and  the  golden-rod, 

And  immortelles,  clustering  sweet, 
From  Canada  down  to  the  sea  have  spread 

A  carpet  for  her  feet ; 
And  the  faint  witch-hazel  buds  unfold, 

Her  latest  smile  to  greet. 

She  loves  the  song  of  the  reapers, 

The  ring  of  the  woodman's  steel, 
The  whirr  of  the  glancing  shuttle, 

The  rush  of  the  tireless  wheel. 
But,  if  war  befalls,  her  sons  she  calls 

From  mill  and  forge  and  lea, 
And  bids  them  uphold  her  banner 

Till  the  land  from  strife  is  free  ; 
And  she  hews  her  oaks  into  vengeful  ships 

That  sweep  the  foe  from  the  sea. 

O  the  Mountain  Maid,  New  Hampshire  ! 

For  beauty  and  wit  anfl  will 
I'll  mate  her  to-day  with  the  fairest 

That  rules  over  plain  or  hill ! 
New  York  is  a  princess  in  purple, 

By  the  gems  of  her  cities  crowned  ; 
Illinois  with  the  garland  of  Ceres 

Her  tresses  of  gold  has  bound — 
Queen  of  the  limitless  prairies, 

Whose  great  sheaves  heap  the  ground  ; 

And  out  by  the  far  Pacific, 

Their  gay  young  sisters  say, 
"Ours  are  the  mines  of  the  Indies 

And  the  treasures  of  broad  Cathay  ;" 


402  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


And  the  dames  of  the  South  walk  proudly, 
Where  the  fig  and  the  orange  fall, 

And,  hid  in  the  high  magnolias, 
The  mocking  thrushes  call ; 

But  the  Mountain  Maid,  New  Hampshire, 
Is  the  rarest  of  them  all ! 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Written  for,  and  read  on  the  occasion  of  the  Bi-Centcnnial  celebration  of  the 
Settlement  of  the  State  of  New  Hampshire,  by  the  JS'c\r  .Hampshire  Historical 
Society,  at  the  State  Capitol,  Concord,  May  22, 1873. 

"A  goodly  realm  !"  said  Captain  Smith, 
Scanning  the  coast  by  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
While  the  wind  blew  fair,  as  in  Indian  myth 
Blows  the  breeze  from  the  Land  of  Souls  ; 
Blew  from  the  marshes  of  Hampton  spread 
Level  and  green  that  summer  day, 
And  over  the  brow  of  Great  Boar's  Head, 
From  the  pines  that  stretched  to  the  west  away ; 
And  sunset  died  on  the  rippling  sea, 
Ere  to  the  south  with  the  wind  sailed  he. 
But  he  told  the  story  in  London  streets, 
And  again  to  court  and  prince  and  king ; 
"A  truce,"  men  cried,  "to  Virginia  heats ; 
The  North  is  the  land  of  hope  and  spring !" 
And  in  sixteen  hundred  and  twenty-three, 
For  Dover  meadows  and  Portsmouth  river, 
Bold  and  earnest  they  crossed  the  sea, 
And  the  realm  was  theirs  and  ours  forever ! 

Up  from  the  floods  of  Piscataqua, 

Slowly,  slowly  they  made  their  way 

Back  to  the  Merrimack's  eager  tide, 

Poured  through  its  meadows  rich  and  wide ; 

And  the  river  that  runs  like  a  joyous  brook — 

Monadnock's  darling,  the  Contoocook  ; — 

And  westward  turned  for  the  warmer  gales 

And  the  wealth  of  Connecticut's  intervales  ; 

And  to  Winnipesaukee's  tranquil  sea, 

Bosomed  in  hills  and  bright  with  isles 

Where  the  alder  grows  and  the  dark  pine-tree, 

And  the  tired  wind  sleeps  and  the  sunlight  smiles  ; 

Up  and  on  to  the  mountains  piled, 

Peak  o'er  peak,  in  the  northern  air, 

Home  of  streams  and  of  winds  that  wild 


EDNA  DEAN  PEOCTOR.  403 

Torrent  and  tempest  valeward  bear, — 

Where  the  Great  Stone  Face  looms  changeless,  calm 

As  the  Sphinx  that  couches  on  Egypt's  sands, 

And  the  fir  and  the  sassafras  yield  their  balm 

Sweet  as  the  odors  of  Morning  lands  ; 

Where  the  eagle  floats  in  the  summer  noon, 

While  his  comrade  clouds  drift,  silent,  by, 

And  the  waters  fill  with  a  mystic  tune 

The  fane  the  cliffs  have  built  to  the  sky  ! 

And,  beyond,  to  the  woods  where  the  huge  moose  browsed, 

And  the  dun  deer  drank  at  the  rill,  unroused 

By  hound  or  horn,  and  the  partridge  brood 

Was  alone  in  the  leafy  solitude  ; 

And  the  lake  where  the  beaver  housed  her  young, 

And  the  loon's  shrill  cry  from  the  border  rung, 

The  lake  whence  the  beauteous  river  flows, 

Its  fountains  fed  by  Canadian  snows. 

What  were  the  Labors  of  Hercules 
To  the  toils  of  heroes  such  as  these  ? — 
Guarding  their  homes  from  Savage  foes 
Cruel  as  fiends  in  craft  and  scorn  ; 
Felling  the  forest  with  mighty  blows  ; 
Planting  the  meadow  plots  with  corn  ; 
Hunting  the  hungry  wolf  to  his  lair  ; 
Trapping  the  panther  and  prowling  bear ; 
Bridging  the  river  ;  building  the  mill 
Where  the  stream  had  leapt  at  its  frolic  will ; 
Rearing,  in  faith  by  sorrow  tried, 
The  church  and  the  school-house,  side  by  side  ; 
Fighting  the  French  on  the  long  frontier, 
From  Louisburg,  set  in  the  sea's  domains, 
To  proud  Quebec  and  the  woods  that  hear 
Ohio  glide  to  the  sunset  plains  ; 
And  when  rest  and  comfort  they  yearned  to  see, 
Risking  their  all  to  be  nobly  free ! 

Honor  and  love  for  the  valiant  Dead  ! 

With  reverent  breath  let  their  names  be  read, — 

Hiltons,  Pepperells,  Sullivans,  Weares, 

Broad  is  the  scroll  the  list  that  bears 

Of  men  as  ardent  and  brave  and  true 

As  ever  land  in  its  peril  knew, 

And  women  of  pure  and  glowing  lives, 

Meet  to  be  heroes'  mothers  and  wives  ! 

For  not  alone  for  the  golden  maize, 

And  the  fisher's  spoils  from  the  teeming  bays, 


404  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  the  treasures  of  forest,  and  hill,  and  mine, 

They  gave  their  barks  to  the  stormy  brine, — 

Liberty,  learning,  righteous  law 

Shone  in  the  vision  they  dimly  saw 

Of  the  age  to  come  and  the  land  to  be ; 

And,  looking  to  heaven,  fervently 

The}'  labored  and  longed  through  the  dawning  gray 

For  the  blessed  break  of  that  larger  day. 

When  the  wail  of  Harvard  in  sore  distress 
Came  to  their  ears  through  the  wilderness, — 
Harvard,  the  hope  of  the  Colonies  twain, 
Planted  with  prayers  by  the  lonely  rnaia — 
It  was  loyal,  struggling  Portsmouth  town 
That  sent  this  gracious  message  down  : 
"Wishing  our  gratitude  to  prove, 
And  the  country  and  general  court  to  move 
For  the  infant  college  beset  with  fears, 
("Its  loss  an  omen  of  ill  would  be  !) 
We  promise  to  pay  it,  for  seven  years, 
Sixty  pounds  sterling,  an  annual  sum, 
Trusting  that  fuller  aid  will  come," — 
And  the  court  and  the  country  heard  their  plea, 
And  the  sapling  grew  to  the  wide-boughed  tree. 
And  when  a  century  had  fled, 
And  the  war  for  freedom  'thrilled  with  dread 
Yet  welcome  summons  every  home, — 
By  the  fire-lit  hearth,  'neath  the  starry  dome, 
They,  vowed  that  never  their  love  should  wane 
For  the  holy  cause  they  burned  to  gain, 
Till  right  should  rule,  and  the  strife  be  done  ! 
List  to  the  generous  deed  of  one  : — 
In  the  Revolution's  darkest  days 
The  legislature  at  Exeter  met ; 
Money  and  men  they  fain  would  raise, 
And  despair  on  eveiy  face  was  set 
As  news  of  the  army's  need  was  read  ; 
Then,  in  the  hush,  John  Langdon  said : 
"Three  thousand  dollars  have  I  in  gold  ; 
For  as  much  I  will  pledge  the  plate  I  hold  ; 
Eighty  casks  of  Tobago  rum  ; 
All  is  the  country's.     The  time  will  come, 
If  we  conquer,  when  amply  the  debt  she'll  pay ; 
If  we  fail,  our  property's  worthless."     A  ray 
Of  hope  cheered  the  gloom,  while  the  Governor  said  : 
"For  a  regiment  now,  with  Stark  at  its  head  !" 


EDNA  DEAN  PBOCTOB.  405 

And  the  boon  we  gained  through  the  noble  lender 
Was  the  Bennington  Day  and  Burgoyne's  Surrender. 

Conflict  over  and  wear}'  quest, 

Hid  in  their  hallowed  graves  they  rest ; 

Nor  the  voice  of  love,  nor  the  cannon's  roar 

"Wins  them  to  field  or  fireside  more  ! 

Did  the  glory  go  from  the  hills  with  them  ? 

Nay  !  for  the  sons  are  true  to  the  sires  ! 

And  the  gems  they  have  set  in  our  diadem 

Burn  with  as  rare  and  brilliant  fires  ; 

And  the  woodland  streams  and  the  mountain  airs 

Sing  of  the  fathers'  fame  with  theirs ! 

One,  in  the  shadow  of  lone  Kearsarge 

Nurtured  for  power,  like  the  fabled  charge 

Of  the  gods,  by  Peliou's  woody  marge  ; — 

So  lofty  his  eloquence,  statel}'  his  mien, 

That,  could  he  have  walked  the  Olympian  plain, 

The  worshipping,  wondering  crowds  had  seen 

Jove  descend  o'er  the  feast  to  reign  ! 

And  one  with  a  brow  as  Balder's  fair, 

And  his  life  the  grandeur  of  love  and  peace  ; — 

Easing  the  burdens  the  race  must  bear, 

Toiling  for  good  he  might  not  share, 

Till  his  white  soul  found  its  glad  release ! 

And  one — a  tall  Corinthian  column, 

Of  the  Temple  of  Justice  prop  and  pride- — 

The  judge  unstained,  the  patriot  tried, 

Gone  to  the  bar  supernal,  solemn, 

Nor  left  his  peer  by  Themis'  side  ! 

Ah  !  when  the  Old  World  counts  her  kings, 

And  from  splendor  of  castle  and  palace  brings 

The  dainty  lords  her  monarchies  mould, 

We'll  turn  to  the  hills  and  say,  "Behold 

Webster  and  Greeley  and  Chase  for  three 

Princes  of  our  Democracy  J" 

Land  of  the  cliff',  the  stream,  the  pine, 

Blessing  and  honor  and  peace  be  thine  ! 

Still  may  thy  giant  mountains  rise, 

Lifting  their  snows  to  the  blue  cf  June, 

And  the  s.uith  wind  breathe  its  tenderesl  sighs 

Over  thy  fields  in  the  harvest  moon  ! 

And  the  river  of  rivers,  Merrimack, 

Whose  current  never  shall  faint  or  lack 

While  the  lakes  and  the  crystal  springs  remain, — 

AVelcomc  the  myriad  brooks  and  rills 


406  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

Winding  through  meadows,  leaping  from  hills 

To  brim  its  banks  for  the  waiting  wheels 

That  thrill  and  fly  to  its  dash  and  roar 

Till  the  rocks  sre  passed,  and  the  sea-fog  steals 

Over  its  tide  by  Newbury's  shore  ! — 

For  the  river  of  rivers  is  Merrimack, 

Whether  it  foams  with  the  mountain  rain, 

Or  toils  in  the  mill  race,  deep  and  black, 

Or,  conqueror,  rolls  to  the  ocean  plain  ! 

And  still  ma}'  the  hill,  the  vale,  the  glen, 

Give  thee  the  might  of  heroic  men, 

And  the  grace  of  women  pure  and  fair 

As  the  May-flower's  bloom  when  the  woods  are  bare  ; 

And  truth  and  freedom  aye  find  in  thee 

Their  surest  warrant  of  victory  ; 

Land  of  fame  and  of  high  endeavor, 

Strength  and  glory  be  thine  forever  ! 


THE  DEAD.* 

As  if  in  lone  Franconia  one  had  said. 
"Alas !  the  glorious  monarch  of  the  hills, 
Mount  Washington,  is  fallen  to  the  vale  ! 
The  direful  echo  all  the  silence  fills ; 
The  winds  sweep  down  the  gorge  with  bitter  wail ; 
The  lesser  heights  rise  trembling  and  dismayed, 
And  the  fond  sun  goes,  clouded,  to  the  west;" — 
So  to  the  street,  the  fireside,  came  the  cry, 
"Our  king  of  men,  our  boldest,  gentlest  heart, 
He  whose  pure  front  was  nearest  to  the  sky, 
Whose  feet  stood  firmest  on  eternal  right ; 
With  his  swift  sympathies  and  giant  might 
That  sealed  him  for  the  martyr's,  warrior's  part, 
And  led,  through  loss,  to  nobler  victory — 
Lies  low,  to-day,  in  death's  unchallenged  rest !" 

How  we  entombed  him  !  not  imperial  Rome 
Gave  her  dead  Caesars  sepulture  so  grand, 
Though  gems  and  purple  on  the  pyre  were  flung ! 
His  tender  requiem  hushed  the  clamorous  land  ; 
And  thus,  by  power  lamented,  poet  sung. 
Through  stricken,  reverent  crowds  we  bore  him  home 
When  winter  skies  were  fair  and  winds  were  still ! 
And  for  his  fame — while  oceans  guard  our  shores 

*  Horace  Grcclcy  died  Nov.  29, 1872. 


EDNA  DEAN  PEOCTOE.  407 

And  mountains  midway  lift  their  peaks  of  snow 
To  the  clear  azure  where  the  eagle  soars ; 
While  peace  is  sweet,  and  the  world  yearns  again 
To  hear  the  angel  strain,  "Good  will  to  men ;" 
While  toil  brings  honor,  virtue  vice  deplores, 
And  liberty  is  precious — it  shall  grow, 
And  the  great  future  with  his  spirit  fill ! 


CONTOOCOOK  RIVER. 

Of  all  the  streams  that  seek  the  sea 

By  mountain  pass,  or  sunny  lea, 

Now  where  is  one  that  dares  to  vie 

With  clear  Contoocook,  swift  and  shy? 

Monadnock's  child,  of  snow-drifts  born, 

The  snows  of  many  a  winter  morn, 

And  many  a  midnight  dark  and  still, 

Heaped  higher,  whiter,  day  by  day, 

To  melt,  at  last,  with  suns  of  May, 

And  steal,  in  tiny  fall  and  rill, 

Down  the  long  slopes  of  granite  gray ; 

Or  filter  slow  through  seam  and  cleft 

When  frost  and  storm  the  rock  have  reft, 

To  bubble  cool  in  sheltered  springs 

Where  the  lone  red-bird  dips  his  wings, 

And  the  tired  fox  that  gains  the  brink 

Stoops,  safe  from  hound  and  horn,  to  drink. 

And  rills  and  springs,  grown  broad  and  deep, 

Unite  through  gorge  and  glen  to  sweep 

In  roaring  brooks  that  turn  and  take 

The  over-floods  of  pool  and  lake, 

Till,  to  the  fields,  the  hills  deliver 

Contoocook's  bright  and  brimming  river  ! 

O  have  you  seen,  from  Hillsborough  town 
How  fast  its  tide  goes  hurrying  down, 
With  rapids  now,  and  now  a  leap 
Past  giant  boulders,  black  and  steep, 
Plunged  in  mid-water,  fain  to  keep 
Its  current  from  the  meadows  green? 
But,  flecked  with  foam,  it  speeds  along ; 
And  not  the  birch-tree's  silvery  sheen, 
Nor  the  soft  lull  of  whispering  pines, 
Nor  hermit  thrushes,  fluting  low, 
Nor  ferns,  nor  cardinal-flowers  that  glovr 


408  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Where  clematis,  the  fairy,  twines, 
Can  stay  its  course,  or  still  its  song ; 
Ceaseless  it  flows  till  round  its  bed 
The  vales  of  Henniker  are  spread, 
Their  banks  all  set  with  golden  grain, 
Or  stately  trees  whose  vistas  gleam — 
A  double  forest — in  the  stream  ; 
And,  winding  'neath  the  pine-crowned  hill 
That  overhangs  the  village  plain, 
By  sunny  reaches,  broad  and  still, 
It  nears  the  bridge  that  spans  its  tide — 
The  bridge  whose  arches  low  and  wide 
It  ripples  through — and  should  you  lean 
A  moment  there,  no  lovelier  scene 
On  England's  Wye,  or  Scotland's  Tay, 
Would  charm  your  gaze,  a  summer's  day. 
And  on  it  glides,  by  grove  and  glen, 
Dark  woodlands,  and  the  homes  of  men, 
With  now  a  ferry,  now  a  mill ; 
Till,  deep  and  calm,  its  waters  fill 
The  channels  round  that  gem  of  isles 
Sacred  to  captives'  woes  and  wiles, 
And,  eager  half,  half  eddying  back, 
Blend  with  the  lordly  Merrimack  ; 
And  Merrimack  whose  tide  is  strong 
Rolls  gently,  with  its  waves  along, 
Monadnock's  stream  that,  coy  and  fair, 
Has  come,  its  larger  life  to  share, 
And,  to  the  sea,  doth  safe  deliver 
Contoocook's  bright  and  brimming  river ! 


KEARSARGE. 

Kearaarge,  the  mountain  which  gave  its  name  to  the  ship  that  sunk  the  Alabama, 
is  a  noble  granite  peak  in  Merrimack  County,  rising  alone,  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea. 

O  lift  thy  head,  thou  mountain,  lone, 

And  mate  thee  with  the  sun  ! 
Thy  rosj'  clouds  are  vale  ward  blown, 
Thy  stars  that  near  at  midnight  shone 

Gone  heavenward,  one  by  one, 
And  half  of  earth,  and  half  of  air, 
Thou  risest  vast  and  gray  and  bare 

And  crowned  with  glory.     Far  south-west 
Monadnock  sinks  to  see, 


EDNA  DEAN  PEOCTOE.  409 

For  all  its  trees  and  towering  crest 
And  clear  Contoocook  from  its  breast 

Poured  down  for  wood  and  lea, 
How  statelier  still,  through  frost  and  dew, 
Thy  granite  cleaves  the  distant  blue. 

And  high  to  north,  from  fainter  sky, 

Franconia's  cliffs  look  down  ; 
Home  to  their  crags  the  eagles  fly, 
Deep  in  their  caves  the  echoes  die, 

The  sparkling  waters  frown, 
And  the  Great  Face  that  guards  the  glen 
Pales  with  the  pride  of  mortal- men. 

Nay,  from  their  silent,  cr}*stal  seat 

The  White  Hills  scan  the  plain  ; 
Nor  Saco's  leaping,  lightsome  fqet, 
Nor  Ammonoosuc  wild  to  greet 

The  meadows  and  the  main, 
Nor  snows  nor  thunders  can  atone 
For  splendor  thou  hast  made  thine  own. 

For  thou  hast  joined  the  immortal  band 

Of  hills  and  streams  and  plains, 
Shrined  in  the  songs  of  native  land, — 
Linked  with  the  deeds  of  valor  grand 

Told  when  the  bright  day  wanes, — 
Part  of  the  nation's  life  art  thou, 
O  mountain  of  the  granite  brow  ! 

Not  Pelion  when  the  Argo  rose, 

Grace  of  its  goodliest  trees  ; 
Nor  Norway  hills  when  woodman's  blows 
Their  pines  sent  crashing  through  the  snows 

That  kings  might  rove  the  seas  ; 
Nor  heights  that  gave  the  Armada's  line, 
Thrilled  with  a  joy  as  pure  as  thine. 

Bold  was  the  ship  thy  name  that  bore  ; 

Strength  of  the  hills  was  hers  ; 
Heart  of  the  oaks  thy  pastures  store, 
The  pines  that  hear  the  north  wind  roar, 

The  dark  and  tapering  firs  ; 
Nor  Argonaut  nor  Viking  knew 
Sublimer  daring  than  her  crew. 

And  long  as  Freedom  fires  the  soul 
Or  mountains  pierce  the  air, 


410  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSITIItE. 

Her  fame  shall  shine  on  honor's  scroll ; 
Thy  brow  shall  be  the  pilgrim's  goal 

Uplifted  broad  and  fair ; 
And  from  thy  skies,  inspiring  gales 
O'er  future  seas  shall  sweep  our  sails. 

Still  summer,  keep  thy  pastures  green, 
And  clothe  thy  osks  and  pines  ; 

Brooks  laugh  thy  rifted  rocks  between ; 

Snows  fall  serenely  o'er  the  scene 
And  veil  thy  lofty  lines  ; 

While  crowned  and  peerless  thou  dost  stand, 

The  monarch  of  our  mountain-land. 


AT  HOME. 

An  Incident  In  the  return  of  the  New  Hampshire  troops.  (1864.) 

"Now  Charley,  on  the  knapsacks  3*ou'll  find  an  easy  bed ; 
Our  blankets  we  have  folded  and  smooth  above  them  spread  ; 
The  train  will  soon  be  starting, — here,  drink  this  cup  of  wine, 
The  captain  just  now  sent  it, — and,  ere  the  morning  shine, 
Away  by  blue  Monadnock,  and  where  the  hill-brooks  foam, 
You  will  be  done  with  travel  and  rest  in  peace  at  home." 

"O  boj's,  you're  very  good  to  me  ;  I  feel  so  tired  and  wea"k, 
That  though  I  Jove  to  listen,  I  scarce  can  bear  to  speak ; 
But  I'm  surely  growing  better,  and  if,  at  early  dawn, 
I  see  our  blue  Monadnock  my  pain  will  all  be  gone  ; 
And  when  I  hear  my  mother's  voice,  and  sit  within  the  door 
That  opens  by  the  brook-side,  I  shall  be  strong  once  more. 

"How  much  I  have  to  tell  her !  my  letters  were  not  long ; 
I  could  not  write  while  on  the  march,  nor  in  the  camp-fire's  throng  ; 
But,  when  I  sit  beside  her,  how  sweet  'twill  be  to  say, 
'Now,  mother,  list  the  story  of  what  befell  that  da}r ;' — 
O,  she  shall  hear  of  every  fight,  and  count  each  weary  mile 
I've  trod,  since,  faint  through  silent  tears,  I  saw  her  parting  smile  ! 

"Good  night,  boys  !  I  shall  sleep  now.     What  joy  it  is  to  feel 
We're  drawing  nearer,  nearer  home  with  each  revolving  wheel ! 
Good  night !  at  dawn  j'ou'll  wake  rne  when  round  the  bend  we  go, 
For  there,  beside  the  station,  my  mother'll  wait,  I  know ; 
And  if  she  does  not  see  me  the  first  to  leave  the  train, 
She'll  think  upon  some  nameless  field  her  boy  at  last  was  slain." 

Slow  turned  away  his  comrades  to  snatch  an  hour's  repose, 
Or  talk  of  siege  and  battle  while  clear  the  moon  uprose ; 


EDNA  DEAN  PE OCTOE.  411 

But  when  the  swift  train  halted,  back  to  his  side  they  crept, 
And  saw  that  on  his  narrow  couch  all  peacefully  he  slept : 
So  night  wore  on  to  morning,  and  day  began  to  dj'e 
With  floating  rose  and  amber,  the  mellow  eastern  sky. 

A  league,  and  then  the  station.   "Ho !  Charley  !"  blithe.they  call, 
"Here  looms  the  mountain  ;  3'onder  the  church-spire  rises  tall ;" — 
No  sound  :  they  bend  above  him  ;  his  brow  is  cold  and  white  ; 
He  does  not  heed  their  voices  ;  he  stirs  not  for  the  light ; — 
Away  by  blue  Monadnock,  and  where  the  hill-brooks  foam, 
The  boy  was  done  with  travel ;  the  soldier  had  gone  home  ! 


O  LOVED  AND  LOST! 

I  sit  beside  the  sea  this  autumn  day, 

When  sky  and  tide  are  ravishingly  blue, 
And  melt  into  each  other.     Down  the  bay 
The  stately  ships  drift  by  so  still  and  slow, 
That,  on  the  horizon's  verge,  I  scarce  may  know 
Which  be  the  sails  along  the  wave  that  glow, 
And  which  the  clouds  that  float  the  azure  through. 

From  beds  of  golden-rod  and  asters  steal 

The  south  winds,  soft  as  any  breath  of  May  ; 
High  in  the  sunny  air  the  white  gulls  wheel, 
As  noiseless  as  the  cloud  they  poise  below  ; 
And,  in  the  hush,  the  light  waves  come  and  go 
As  if  a  spell  entranced  them,  and  their  flow 
Echoed  the  beat  of  oceans  far  away. 

O  loved  and  lost !  can  you  not  stoop  to  me 

This  perfect  morn,  when  heaven  and  earth  are  one? 
The  south  winds  breathe  of  you  ;  I  only  see 
(Alas,  the  vision  sweet  can  naught  avail !) 
Your  image  in  the  cloud,  the  wave,  the  sail ; 
And  heed  nor  calm,  nor  storm,  nor  bliss,  nor  bale, 
Remembering  you  have  gone  beyond  the  sun. 

One  look  into  your  eyes  ;  one  clasp  of  hands  ; 

One  murmured,  "Lo,  I  love  you  as  before ;" 
And  I  would  give  3-011  to  your  viewless  lands 
And  wait  my  time  with  never  tear  or  sigh  ; — • 
But  not  a  whisper  comes  from  earth  or  sky, 
And  the  sole  answer  to  my  yearning  cry 

Is  the  faint  wash  of  waves  along  the  shore. 

Lord  !  dost  thou  see  how  dread  a  thing  is  death 
When  silence  such  as  this  is  all  it  leaves  ? — 


412  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

To  watch  in  agon}T  the  parting  breath 
Till  the  fond  eyes  are  closed,  the  dear  voice  still ; 
And  know  that  not  the  wildest  pra}rer  can  thrill 
Thee  to  awake  them,  but  our  grief  must  fill 
Alike  the  rosy  morns,  the  rain)-  eves. 

Ah  !  thou  dost  see  ;  and  not  a  pang  is  vain  ! — 

Some  joy  of  ever}'  anguish  must  be  born  ; 
Else  this  one  planet's  weight  of  loss  and  pain 
Would  stay  the  stars  in  s}-mpathetic  woe, 
And  make  the  suns  move  pale,  and  cold,  and  slow, 
Till  all  was  black  and  void,  thy  throne  below, 
And  night  shut  down  without  a  gleam  of  morn. 

But  mark !  the  sun  goes  radiant  to  his  goal 
While  winds  make  music  on  the  laughing  sea ; 

And,  with  his  set,  the  starry  host  will  roll 

Celestial  splendors  over  mead  and  main  ; 

Lord  !  can  thy  worlds  be  glad,  and  death  enchain? 

Nay  !  'tis  but  crowning  for  immortal  reign 
In  the  pure  realm  where  all  abide  with  thee. 

What  star  has  seen  the  sun  at  cloudless  noon  ? 

What  chrysalis  knows  aught  of  wings  that  soar  ?- 
O  blessed  souls  !  how  can  I  hope  the  boon 
Of  look  or  word  from  you,  the  glorified, 
Until  for  me  the  shining  gates  swing  wide? — 
Welcome  the  day  when  the  great  deeps  divide, 

And  we  are  one  in  life  for  evermore ! 


ISfctoarti  EuQtistus  Jenfcs. 


E.  A.  Jenks  was  born  in  Newport,  Oct.  30,  1830.  He  received  an  academic  educa 
tion  at  Thetford  academy,  Thetford,  Vt.  In  185-2  he  formed  a  copartnership  with 
Joseph  C.  Abbott,  and  purchased  the  Manchester  American.  In  1856  he  sold  his 
interest  in  the  American,  and  went  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  where  he  resided  two  years. 
In  1858  he  became  a  resident  of  New  York  city,  and  was  "proof-reader"  in  some 
of  the  largest  publishing  houses  there.  In  1862  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and 
became  connected  with  the  tlrm  of  Alexander  Swift  and  Company,  Iron  manu 
facturers,  and  contractors  for  the  building  of  the  monitors  Cata'wba,  Oiieota, 
Klamath,  and  Yuma,  for  the  government,  where  he  remained  until  their  com 
pletion  and  delivery  to  the  Navy  Department.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  war  he 
•went  to  Vicksburg,  Miss.,  as  an  agent  for  the  purchase  of  cotton  for  shipment  to 
Northern  markets.  The  prosecution  of  his  business  took  him  to  nearly  all  parts 
of  the  state,  by  rail,  steamboat,  and  horseback,  as  well  as  to  many  of  "the  neigh 
boring  states.  In  1871  he  was  called  to  the  head  of  the  Kepublican  Tress  As 
sociation,  of  Concord,  publishers  of  the  Daily  Monitor  and  the  Independent 
Statesman,  as  its  treasurer  and  business  manager.  Since  holding  this  position  he 
lias  three  times  been  elected  state  printer.  In  1877.  a  vacancy  occurring  in  the 
office  of  State  Reporter  (reporter  of  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme  Court),  he  was 
appointed  to  that  office.  He  has  made  many  contributions  to  current  literature. 
Poems  of  his  are  found  in  Bryant's  new  "Library  of  Poetry  and  Song,"  Dr. 
Kendrick's  "Our  Poetical  Favorites."  Harpel's  "Foeti  and  Poetry  of  Printerdom." 
and  S;irgent's  "Cyclopaedia  of  English  and  American  Poetry."  Mr.  Jeuks  resides 
in  Newport. 


ED  WARD  A  UG  USTUS  JENKS.  4 1 3 

THE  FARMHOUSE. 

The  laughing  sunshine  peers  above  the  hill, 

And  down  the  slumbering  vale  ; 
Then  hastens  on  with  nimble  feet,  until, 
A  rood  or  two  beyond  the  silvery  rill 
Now  strolling  idly  through  the  crippled  mill, 

He  gains  the  cottage  pale. 

The  hospitable  gate  stands  open  wide, 

And  with  impatient  lips 
The  morning-glory  beckons  to  her  side 
The  wayward  youth,  whose  quest  she  ne'er  denied  ; 
Her  tangled  tresses  quick  he  thrusts  aside, 

And  dewy  nectar  sips. 

He  lingers  lovingly  among  the  flowers 

That  fringe  the  open  door ; 

Then  steals  within,  and  wakes,  with  magic  powers, 
The  forms  at  rest  in  Dreamland's  rustic  bowers, 
And  plays  through  morning's  golden-tinted  hours 

Upon  the  oaken  floor. 

The  birds  troll  welcome  to  the  summer  days 

From  airy  turrets  high ; 
The  bees  are  humming  over  ancient  la}Ts 
That  erst  were  heard  in  Eden's  shaded  ways, 
On  that  bright  morn  when  universal  praise 

Rolled  through  the  arching  sky. 

Brave  chanticleers,  with  summons  loud  and  shrill, 

The  languid  echoes  wake, 

Which  just  before  were  sleeping,  calm  and  still, 
Behind  the  old  and  hojiry-headed  mill — 
Which  nevermore  will  heed  its  master's  will — 

Bej'ond  the  dreaming  lake. 

The  butterflies  have  stretched  their  painted  wings 

Upon  the  breath  of  dawn, 

And  flit  from  flower  to  flower  like  human  things : 
The  slaughtered  hay  its  dying  perfume  flings 
Abroad  upon  the  white-winged  gale,  which  brings 

And  strews  it  o'er  the  lawn. 

Beneath  the  moss-grown  roof  a  group  prepare 

To  siege  the  smoking  board, 
Which  fills  with  grateful  incense  all  the  air ; 
But  first  the  reverend  sire,  with  frosty  hair, 
Craves  "daily  bread"  for  those  assembled  there, 

From  Him  for  aye  adored. 


4H  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Quick  follow  then  the  clangings  of  the  steel — 

Above  no  weltering  foe  ; 
No  timid  suppliants  for  mercy  kneel — 
No  vizored  foe  men  with  dim  vision  reel ; 
But  happy  voices  grace  the  morning  meal 

With  love's  sweet  overflow.  i 

And  then  the  cheerful  group  contrive  to  share 

The  labors  of  the  day  ; 
While  I,  with  angling  gear  and  eager  air, 
Retreat,  like  lion  to  his  forest  lair, 
To  shady  woods  where  winding  streams  repair, 

And  while  the  hours  away. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YESTERDAY. 

"Was't  3'esterday  ?   Yes,  'twas  yesterda}' ! 

It  must  have  been  yesterda}-  morn  : — 
I  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  River  Ray, 

Where  the  squadrons  of  martial  corn 
Their  silken  banners  had  just  unfurled 

To  the  breeze,  by  the  singing  stream, 
When  a  vision  of  beaut}-,  all  golden-curled, 

Grew  into  my  waking  dream. 

"I  know  it  wras  yesterda}', — for  now 

The  rustle  1  seem  to  hear, 
As  the  tall  corn  parted  right  and  left, 

And  a  voice  rang  soft  and  clear, — 
'Wait,  Willie,  wait !  I  am  almost  there  ! 

I  said  I  would  grant  your  wish, — 
So  I've  made  a  line  of  my  golden  hair, 

And  am  coming  to  help  you  fish !' 

"Yes  !   (why  do  I  doubt?)  it  was  yesterday — 

For  I  see  the  soft  tassels  there 
Sunning  themselves  in  a  worshipful  way 

In  the  light  of  her  yellow  hair, 
While  her  voice  rings  merrily  over  the  corn, — 

'Oh,  Willie  !  come  help  me  through, 
For  I  am  "the  maiden  all  forlorn," 

And  my  feet  are  wet  with  dew. 

"  'And  yon  know  I'm  coming  to  help  you  fish- 
But  you'll  think  me  n  silly  girl, 

For  1  haven't  a  bit  of  bait — but  wait ! 
I'll  bait  with  a  tiny  curl ! 


ED  WABD  A  UG  USTUS  JENKS.  4  ]  5 

And,  Willie,  say — do  you  think  they'll  bite? 

And  then,  what  shall  I  do? 
Must  I  pull  and  pull  with  all  my  might? 

But  I'll  wait,  and  look  at  you !' 

"Ah,  me  !   ah,  me  !  was  it  yesterday? 

It  seems  but  a  day  ago  ! 
Yet  three-score  3'ears  of  yesterdays 

Have  whitened  my  head  with  snow 
Since  we  sat,  in  that  sweetest  of  summer-times, — 

I  and  my  beautiful  Ma}-, — 
Coining  our  love  into  wedding  chimes, 

On  the  bank  of  the  River  Ray." 


THE  CHILDREN. 

The  children  !  O  the  children  ! — 
How  dark  the  world,  and  gloom}-, 
How  wide,  and  cold,  and  roomy, 

To  the  mother's  loving  heart, 
Did  not  the  breezes  waft  her 
The  songs  and  merry  laughter 

Of  the  blessed,  blessed  children  ! 

The  children  !  O  the  children  ! — 
How  the  sun  would  pale  its  glory, 
And  the  beautiful  in  story 

Die  out  of  all  the  lands, 

Could  they  not  hear  us  calling, 
When  the  twilight  dews  are  falling, 

"Come  home  !  Come  home,  O  children  !" 

The  children  !  O  the  children  !— 
Very  sweet  the  sacred  pages, 
Floating  down  through  all  the  ages, 

Telling  of  the  Christ-child  born 
Where  the  mild-eyed  oxen  ponder, 
With  a  sort  of  wistful  wonder, 

O'er  the  Prince  of  all  the  children  ! 

The  children  !  0  the  children  ! — 
See  them  blood-red  roses  strowing 
In  the  path  where  Christ  is  going 

Toward  Jerusalem,  the  doomed  ! 

See  them  wave  their  cool  green  banners  ! 
Hear  them  shout  their  glad  hosanuas 

To  the  Saviour  of  the  children  ! 


416  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

TO  A  FAVORITE  STREAM.* 

An  October  Poem. 

Silence  sleeps  in  thy  valley, 

O  beautiful  stream ! 
O  wayward  and  mystical  river  ! 
Dreaming  a  pleasant  dream, 

As  the  sunbeams  on  thy  murmuring  ripples  quiver, 
And  talking  in  his  sleep — 
His  sleep  so  sound  and  deep  ! 

Dreaming  of  maidens  roaming 

Thy  banks  along, 
And  of  jets  of  sparkling  laughter 

Bursting  from  waves  of  song 

That  must  die  away  on  the  shores  of  the  dim  Hereafter — 
That  peaceful,  voiceless  sea, 
Kin  to  Eternity ! 

Silence  hath  myriad  voices, 

0  gleaming  tide ! 
And  from  thine  enchanting  valley, 

Radiant  in  its  pride, 

The}'  come  to  the  cliff  where  the  poet  stands, — and  shall  he 
Interpret  them  to  thee, 
Under  this  old  pine  tree  ? 

"Beautiful,  beautiful  river!" 

The  old  pine  sighs  ! 
And  the  wrinkled,  gray  old  ledges, — 

Tears  in  their  mossy  e}-es, — 
Toss  back  an  echo  from  their  jagged  edges, 
To  that  lone  sentinel, 
Guarding  the  valley  well. 

Fondly  the  tall  pine  watches 

Th}'  narrow  bed, 
Fearing  some  morn  to  miss  thee, 

Beautiful  silver  thread ! 

And  ere  the  glooming  he  sends  his  shadow  to  kiss  thee 
A  soft  and  sweet  good-night, 
Till  morning's  rosy  light. 

Maples  with  crimson  blushing, 

Far  down  below, 
And  distant  hillsides  climbing, 

Changed  to  a  golden  glow, — 

»  Sugar  River,  In  Sullivan  County. 


ED  WAED  A  UG  USTUS  JENKS.  4 1 7 

All  lend  a  tongue  to  that  mysterious  chiming, 
Deep  as  the  sounding  sea — 
Deep  as  their  love  for  thee  ! 

Blending  in  sweetest  music, 

The  tinkling  feet 
Ot  rivulets  down-rushing 

Dance  to  thy  silver  sheet, 

While  the  rapt  sun  through  golden  rifts  is  flushing 
Thy  face  with  heaven's  own  light : 
O  dream  too  brief,  too  bright ! 

"Beautiful,  beautiful  river!" 

The  old  pine  sighs  : 
In  the  silence  my  heart  replieth, — 

"Daughter  of  earth  and  skies, 
Farewell !  but  at  last,  when  my  weary  spirit  flieth 
Beyond  the  chiming  stars, 
May  my  eyes  unclasp  their  bars 
To  see  th^y  placid  waters  calmly  flowing 
Out  from  the  Burning  Throne,  and  down  the  valleys  glowing !" 


HELENE. 

Under  that  snow-white  sheet  she  lies — 

Helene  my  beautiful !  Helene  my  true  ! 

Softly  the  morning  breaks  over  the  skies, 

Softly  regretful  stars  kiss  her  adieu  ; — 

Lies  she  there  seeming 

So  blissfully  dreaming, — 
Fragrant  her  ripe  lips  as  breath  of  the  morn, — 

No  one  shall  lisp  her 

Name  even  in  whisper  : 
She's  roaming  where  fairy-land  fancies  are  born  ! 

Clustering  clouds  of  dark,  passionate  hair 

Frown  back  the  curious  beams  of  the  sun  : 
Hidden  but  meagerly,  shapel}-  and  rare, 

Round,  white,  soft  mysteries  wait  to  be  won  ; — 
Seemingly  bolder, 
One  Parian  shoulder, 
Purity's  self,  dims  the  pillow  below — 
While,  thrown  above  her 
Head  (who  could  but  love  her  !) 
A  round  arm  lies  white  as  the  shimmering  snow ! 


418  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Parting  as  clouds  part  when  summer  winds  blow, 

Heavenly  wonders  unveiling  above, — 
So  part  the  gauze-clouds,  revealing  below 
Opaline  mountains  in  gardens  of  love  ; — 

Soft  undulations, 

Like  music's  vibrations 
Coursing  light-footed  the  silvery  strings, 

Seem  like  the  ocean 

In  jubilant  motion,  < 

Rocking  its  burden  of  beautiful  things. 

Waking  as  wake  the  }'oung  birds  in  their  nests, 

Baby  Nell  opens  her  wondering  eyes — 
Climbs  where  the  lush  mountains  bear  on  their  crests 
Strawberries  ripe  as  the  ruddiest  skies  ; — 
There,  among  treasures 
In  bountiful  measures, 

Roguish-eyed,  cherry-lipped,  pink-footed  Nell 
Drinks  from  a  chalice 
The  king  in  his  palace 
•  Might  barter  his  crown  for,  and  barter  it  well. 


HYMN, 

Written  for  the  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  New 
port,  Oct.  28, 1879. 

A  thousand  hearts  are  swelling 

With  gratitude  to-day, 
For  here,  to  this  His  dwelling, 

Our  Saviour  leads  the  way  : 
We  turn  the  ancient  pages, 

We  scan  the  yellow  leaves, 
Where  Jesus,  through  the  ages,    . 

Has  written  of  His  sheaves. 

We've  heard  the  simple  story 

Of  that  courageous  band, 
The  young,  and  heads  all  hoaiy, 

Who  came  to  this  fair  land, — 
The  pathless  wild  before  them, 

The  sleepless  stars  above, 
With  heaven  bending  o'er  them, 

And  great  hearts  full  of  love. 


AMANDA  JEMIMA  SMART.  41  y 

The  dews  of  June*  were  glist'ning 

Among  the  tree-tops  there, 
And  softest  breezes  list'ning 

To  sadly  cadenced  prayer, 
"When  on  that  Sabbath  morning 

The  fire  began  to  glow, — 
This  church's  faint,  sweet  dawning, 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

A  hundred  j'ears  ! — how  glorious 

Their  voices,  and  how  strong, 
As  down  the  years,  victorious, 

The  echoes  roll  along. 
O  Christ !  like  them  undaunted 

When  overwhelmed  with  woe, 
Come  bless  the  church  they  planted 

A  hundred  years  ago. 


Etnantra  Jemima 


Amanda  J.  Dearborn  was  born  in  Thornton,  in  1830.  In  1851  she  married  Lewis 
B.  Smart.  They  lived  a  few  years  in  Kansas,  but  preferring  a  home  in  their  native 
State,  they  returneU  and  now  reside  in  Canipton. 


"THE  POOR  IS  FORGOTTEN  OF  HIS   NEIGHBOR." 

Shall  one,  who  does  God's  image  bear, 
And  shares  each  day  his  tender  care, 

Forgotten  live  and  die? 
Did  Christ  descend  the  rich  to  bless, 
And  turn  from  sin  to  righteousness, 

And  all  the  poor  pass  by  ? 

Where  was  the  King  of  kings  a  guest, 
And  where  his  only  place  of  rest, 

When  first  to  earth  he  came  ? 
Was  it  iu  princely  halls  he  slept, 
When  shepherds  left  the  flocks  they  kept, 

Led  by  the  dazzling  flame  ? 

Where  is  He  found  in  later  days, 
When  prison  walls  resound  with  praise, 
And  captive  souls  go  free  ? 

*  In  June,  1766,  these  men,  eijrht  in  all,  five  having  families,  arrived  in  town  Satur 
day  night;  and  the  following  day  they  spent  in  religious  worship,  under  the  shadow 
of  a  pine-tree.  Since  thefee  men  met  under  that  tree,  to  the  present  time,  the  Congre- 
gationalists  have  never  permitted  a  Sunday  to  pass  without  meeting  for  religious 
worship. — History  of  Newport. 


420  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Was  it  with  those  of  noble  birth, 

He  spent  his  woful  days  on  earth, 

Till  hung  upon  the  tree? 

Ah,  no !  with  poverty  he  dwelt, 
And  want  in  every  form  he  felt, 

E'en  to  the  want  of  friends, — 
To-day,  as  yesterday  the  same, 
This  friend  the  humble  poor  may  claim- 
To  all  his  love  extends. 


A  HOME  IN  THE  GRANITE  STATE. 

0,  tell  me  no  more  of  the  wild  prairies,  fair, 

The  tall  waving  grain  and  the  giant-like  corn, 

Of  clustering  vines  and  of  flowerets  rare, 

Where  peaceful  herds  graze  on  the  plains  yet  unshorn. 

The  north  wind  is  sweeping  from  midnight  till  noon, 
Its  cold  breath  congealing  each  dew-covered  leaf, 
The  south  alternating,  a  mimic  monsoon, 
And  changing  the  climate  in  time  very  brief. 

The  mountains  and  hills  of  the  old  Granite  State, 
So  changeful,  and  free  from  monotonous  scenes, 
Have  charms,  in  themselves,  which  aught  cannot  create 
'Mong  dark  muddy  creeks,  and  more  loathsome  ravines. 

O,  give  me  a  home  in  my  own  native  state, 

Where  spirits  of  languor,  and  gloom  will  subside, 

And  health-giving  breezes  with  life  will  inflate, 

As  clear  sparkling  rills  from  their  cool  fountains  glide. 

Yes,  give  me  the  bobolink's  musical  trite, 
While  singing  in  tree-top,  or  floating  in  air, 
For  plain  little  Quail's  everlasting  bob  white. — 
His  song  is  more  welcome,  his  plumage  more  fair. 

The  mountains  majestic,  with  evergreen  spread, 
Surpass,  in  their  grandeur,  the  prairies  in  brown, 
The  hills,  decked  in  autumn  with  3'ellow  and  red, 
Enliven  the  city,  the  country  and  town. 

Ah.  give  me  the  home  of  my  childhood  again, 
The  home  where  I  sported,  light-hearted  and  gay, 
A  grave,  where  the  dearest  of  kindred  are  laid — 
Their  home,  may  I  share,  when  from  this,  torn  away. 


CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON.  421 


Miss  Woolson,  a  daughter  of  Charles  J.  Woolson,  is  a  native  of  Claremont.  Her 
father  was  a  printer.  When  she  was  about  twelve  years  of  age,  the  familv  re 
moved  to  Cleveland,  Ohio.  She  is  descended  on  her  father's  side  from  the  Pea- 
bodys  of  New  England,  and  her  mother  was  a  niece  of  Fenimore  Cooper.  Miss 
Woolson  is  a  writer  of  distinction.  Her  works  of  fiction  appear  in  Harper's  Mag 
azine,  and  other  foremost  periodicals.  She  has  travelled  much  within  the  United 
States,  in  a  carriage,  accompanied  by  her  father. 


FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

She  journeyed  north,  she  jounced  south, 

The  whole  bright  land  she  wandered  over, 
And  climbed  the  mountains  white  with  snow, 
And  sought  the  plains  where  palm-trees  grow, 
But — never  found  the  four-leaved  clover. 


Then  to  the  seas  she  spread  her  sail, 

Fled  round  the  world  a  white-winged  rover ; 

Her  small  foot  pressed  the  Grecian  grass, 

She  saw  Egyptian  temples  pass, 
But — never  found  the  four-leaved  clover. 

The  costliest  gems  shone  on  her  brow ; 

The  ancient  Belgian  spinners  wove  her 
A  robe  of  lace  a  queen  might  wear ; 
Her  eyes  found  all  most  rich,  most  rare, 

But — never  found  the  four-leaved  clover. 

The  throng  did  flock  to  see  her  pass, 

To  hear  her  speak,  and  all  men  strove  her 

Smile  to  win  ;  she  had  the  whole 

Of  each  one's  life  and  heart  and  soul, 
But — never  found  the  four-leaved  clover. 

A  sudden  whirlwind  came  at  last, 

A  little  tempest  rose,  and  drove  her 
Homeward,  bereft,  alone,  and  poor, 
The  fair  friends  fled,  the  journeyings  o'er 
That  never  found  the  four-leaved  clover ! 

"Alas  !"  she  sighed,  "all  hope  is  gone  ; 

I've  searched  the  wide  world  through  ;  moreover 
My  eyes  are  worn  with  toil ;  they  see 
But  this  small  strip  of  grass" —     There  free 

And  strong  it  grew — the  four-leaved  clover ! 


422  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Haura  £.  Norrte. 

Miss  Norris,  a  daughter  of  William  Norris,  Is  a  native  of  Nottingham,  born  in 
1831.  In  1874  she  removed  to  Hampton,  where  she  still  resides  with  her  aged  par 
ents.  She  commenced  teaching  at  an  early  age,  and  has  followed  that  vocation 
much  of  the  time  during  the  past  thirty  years. 


STANZAS. 

How  sweet,  when  sorrows  gather  fast, 
When  hopes  of  happiness  grow  dim, 

"When  memory  o'er  the  changeful  past 
Breathes  forth  a  mournful  requiem, 

To  feel,  as  wearily  we  plod, 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  see  their  God. 

And  wouldst  thou  aid  th}'  brother  man 
As  life's  stern  cares  before  him  rise? 

In  kindness  then,  his  errors  scan, 

And  cheer  when  hope  within  him  dies ; 

When  duty  calls,  oh,  falter  not, 

And  thine  shall  be  a  blessed  lot. 

There  breathes  a  song  of  purity, 
In  loftiest  tree  and  tiniest  flower  ; 

Rock,  mount  and  wave  alike  may  be 
An  emblem,  of  that  wondrous  Power 

Which  guides  the  destinies  of  all, 

And  heeds  the  sparrows  when  they  fall. 

If  there's  a  feeling  of  the  heart, 

Which  we  should  guard  with  zealous  care, 
While  love  and  friends  their  joys  impart — 

With  sacredness  to  cherish  there, 
'Gainst  every  breath  or  influence  rude, 

That  feeling  sure  is  gratitude. 

« 

Then  ma}-  our  sweet  orisons  rise 

With  gratitude,  nor  idly  pine, 
While  time  with  tireless  pinion  flies, 

That  more  of  bliss  had  not  been  thine — 
This  thought  be  of  thy  life  a  part, 
That  God  will  claim  the  pure  in  heart. 


LINES, 

Addressed  to  a  friend  on  the  death  of  two  lovely  children. 

Gone  out  upon  that  sea,  whose  rolling  tide 
Will  never  bear  their  forms  again  to 


LAURA  A.  NOEEI8.  423 

Their  goal  is  reached,  and,  parted  from  your  side, 
Their  feet  have  pressed  the  strand  we  all  must  view. 

Softly  to  earth  a  guardian  angel  came, 
And  in  his  arms  the  gentle  sufferers  bore, 

To  drink  of  waters  from  a  living  stream, 
And  feast  on  love  unknown  to  them  before. 

Light  were  the  shadows  which  their  pathways  crossed, 
Bright  was  the  sunshine  which  their  childhood  knew  ; 

Few  were  their  j'ears,  yet  never  will  be  lost 

The  precious  fragrance,  which  your  hearts  bedew. 

The  early  dead  are  blest — they  sweetly  sleep 
Ere  their  young  lives  have  felt  the  curse  of  sin  ; 

And  throngs  of  youthful  voices  music  keep 

In  rapturous  strains,  their  star-crowned  home  within. 

And  3*6  are  blest,  for  faithful  is  the  love, 
Which  teaches  children  those  sweet  truths  to  know, 

Which  came  with  heavenly  beauty  from  the  lips 
Of  Him  who  blessed  them,  when  He  walked  below. 

And  full  of  love  is  that  mysterious  Power 

Which  gave,  which  took — then  pass  beneath  the  rod ; 
While  faith  and  hope  shall  light  this  trying  hour, 

That  you  may  recognize  the  hand  of  God. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

A  Hebrew  legend  says  that,  "Before  Adam  and  Eve  were  expelled  from  Para 
dise,  God  came  down  from  Heaven  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  and,  walking  in  Eden, 
gathered  tha  flowers  he  had  created." 

Readeth  thus  the  Hebrew  legend  : 

God  within  his  garden  strayed, 
Plucking  from  his  chosen  flowers 

Such  g.s  purest  form  displayed  ; 
So  from  out  our  happy  household 

Quickly  passed  from  mortal  view 
One,  whose  life  was  crowned  with  gladness — 

Heart  so  tender,  strong  and  true. 

'Tis  the  voice  of  God  that  speaketh  ; 

Listen  we  with  stifled  moan, 
While  the  burden  laid  upon  us 

Seems  too  grievous  to  be  borne  ; 
And  our  human  hearts  are  breaking 

'Neath  this  weight  of  loneliness — 
Gone  the  gladness  from  life's  duties 

He  was  wont  to  share  and  bless. 


424  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

1 

Unto  purposes  ennobling 

Was  bis  heart's  best  bomage  given — 
In  tbe  pride  of  ripening  manhood 

Gone  to  a  reward  in  beaven. 
One  more  link  will  draw  us  thither 

With  the  foot-fall  of  tbe  years, 
For  beyond  the  touch  of  sorrow 

Pledge  of  perfect  love  appears. 

While  the  radiance  Memory  giveth 

Still  will  cheer  tbe  gloomiest  hour, 
And  though  grief  may  weigh  the  spirit 

She  will  still  assert  her  power ; 
And  a  faith,  in  God  abiding, 

Bids  all  murmuring  thoughts  be  still ; 
And  amid  this  desolation 

Bow  we  to  his  sovereign  will. 

Round  about  us,  pitying  Father, 

Let  us  feel  thy  fond  embrace — 
Through  the  rifted  clouds  of  sorrow 

Recognise  thy  smiling  face. 
Though  an  earthly  staff  is  taken 

Cling  we  closer  unto  thee, 
Since  the  mysteries  which  surround  us 

In  thy  presence  solved  shall  be. 


Wi. 


Mrs.  Ellsworth,  whose  maiden  name  was  Janorin,  was  born  In  Exeter  In  1830. 
She  was  educated  In  her  native  town.  Early  developing  a  taste  for  composition, 
she  won  a  prize  in  her  eighteenth  year,  offered  by  the  publishers  of  a  leading  Bos 
ton  journal,  by  the  production  of  a  tale  entitled,  "Children's  Vows ;  or  the  Cornelian 
Ring."  She  soon  after  published  various  articles,  tales,  sketches,  and  poetry  in 
the  Philadelphia  popular  magazines,  and  became  a  regular  contributor  to  (Jodey'i 
Lady's  Book.  She  was  author  of  several  volumes  published  by  the  American  Tract 
Society.  In  1868  she  married  the  late  Oliver  Ellsworth,  a  publisher  of  Boston.  Her 
death  occurred  in  the  summer  of  1370.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  gitled  in  no 
ordinary  degree. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  GERTRUDE. 

When  had  come  the  pleasant  spring-time  with  the  gently  drop 
ping  showers, 

And  the  balmy  winds  were  playing  with  the  bursting  buds  and 
flowers ; 

When  the  robin  and  the  swallow  each  had  come  to  build  her  nest, 

And  the  nodding  water-lilies  hung  upon  the  river's  breast ; 

When  the  glorious  summer  dawning  brought  the  warm  and 
summer  skies, 


MAEY  E.  B.  MILLEE.  425 

And  the  fields  were  filled  with  flowers,  and  the  air  with  butterflies  ; 

When  was  heard  the  drowsy  murmur  of  the  roving  honey-bees, 

And  the  low  and  lulling  music,  stealing  from  the  quivering  leaves  ; 

When  with  stalwart  steps  the  autumn  slowly  came  along  the  plain, 

Bending  low  beneath  his  burden  of  tbe  golden  fruit  and  grain  ; 

Gertrude  then  and  I  went  roaming  out  within  the  forest  lone, 

Where  the  beds  of  moss  were  golden,  where  the  sunlight  glanc 
ing  shone. 

From  the  cool  and  grassy  valley  came  the  sound  of  tinkling  rills, 

And  we  saw  the  crystal  brooklets  leaping  down  between  the  hills. 

And  we  watched  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  twilight  floating  down, 

Down  upon  the  level  meadows,  and  upon  the  distant  town. 

Where  the  sun  had  sunk  in  splendor,  through  the  gates  of  west 
ern  skies, 

Rose  the  star-beams,  soft  and  tender,  as  the  light  in  maidens' 
eyes. 

Timidly  then  as  a  lover,  and  with  foot-fall  soft  and  light, 

Folding  close  her  mantle  round  her,  silently  stole  forth  the  night. 

Spring  and  summer  now  are  over,  and  the  birds  and  bees  are 
flown, 

And  alone  I  sit  in  sorrow,  thinking  of  the  seasons  gone. 

In  the  store-house  sheaves  are  garnered,  like  fond  hopes  in 
hearts  of  men, 

But  the  harvest-joy  will  never  for  my  spirit  spring  again. 

Quenched  the  star-light  is  in  darkness,  and  a  gloom  lies  overall, 

And  the  shadows  deep  are  folding  o'er  my  heart  like  fearful  pall ; 

For  the  autumn  rains  are  dropping  down  upon  a  lowty  bed, 

Where  we  laid  our  silent  Gertrude,  where  repose  the  early  dead  ; 

And  I  hear  the  wind's  sad  wailing,  for  across  her  grave  they've 
been ; 

And  the  rains  without  are  falling,  and  the  bitter  tears  within. 


Miss  Miller  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth.  All  the  poetry  she  ever  published  was 
written  during  the  years  of  her  attendance  at  school.  After  leaving  school  she  de 
voted  herself  to  music,  in  which  she  was  proficient,  being  an  excellent  teacher  in 
instrumental  music.  She  was  organist  at  the  Unitarian  church  for  several  years, 
composing  much  music  for  the  choir  under  her  direction.  For  the  past  few  years 
she  has  given  her  attention  to  painting,  and  is  better  known  as  an  artist  than  as 
musician  or  poet.  She  resides  in  Boston,  and  has  a  studio  at  149  Tremont  Street. 


ON  LIFE'S  THRESHOLD. 

The  way  looks  very  long  and  dark  and  drear, 

That  leads  through  this  strange  life  to  life  immortal : 

The  great  world's  din  is  filling  me  with  fear, 
As  I  stand  trembling  at  its  awful  portal. 


42G  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Oh  !  I  have  walked  till  now  in  quiet  places, 

With  Nature,  in  her  woods  and  fields  and  dells : 
The  flowers  look  at  me  with  familiar  faces ; 
•  I  know  the  stoiy  that  the  wild  bird  tells. 

I've  watched  the  autumn  sun's  transfiguring  splendor 
Flood  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  at  day's  decline ; 

I've  watched  the  harvest-moons  rise  calm  and  tender, 
And  fair  June  mornings  wake  with  smiles  divine. 

With  low,  sweet  melody  of  running  water, 
With  wild  leaf-music,  song  of  bird  and  bee, 

Has  Nature  welcomed  me,  where'er  I  sought  her ; 
And  never  discord  mars  her  harmony. 

Oh !  none  of  earth's  sad  sights  and  sounds  have  ever 
Disturbed  the  quiet  of  these  blessed  years  ; 

And  must  I  bid  these  joys  farewell  for  ever, 
To  walk  henceforward  in  a  vale  of  tears  ? 

The  world  looks  very  cold  and  dark  and  dreary, 

As  I  stand  trembling  at  its  open  gate : 
I  hear  within  the  sighing  of  the  weary, — 

If  I  must  enter,  let  me  longer  wait ! 

I  hear,  from  out  its  dark  and  frowning  portal, 
No  sounds  but  those  of  sin  and  woe  and  death ; 

No  yearning  praj'ers  for  life  and  light  immortal, 
But  only  cries  for  bread  that  perisheth. 

And  through  the  open  gate  of  that  sad  city 
Are  strange,  dark  faces  gazing  out  on  me : 

Oh,  how  my  heart  swells,  with  a  shuddering  pity, 
For  these,  whose  life  is  one  long  misery  ! 

For  women,  with  such  still  and  hopeless  faces  ; 

For  men,  whose  passions  live,  whose  souls  are  dead ; 
For  childhood,  without  childhood's  sunny  graces  ; 

And  age,  without  the  halo  round  its  head. 

Are  these  the  sights  for  which  I  leave  the  mountains, 
Th}'  sunlit  meadows,  and  the  blossoms  fair? 

Must  I  exchange  the  song  of  birds  and  fountains, 
For  this  dread  wailing  of  the  world's  despair  ? 

O  selfish  soul !  the  peace  which  God  hath  given, 
Which  keeps  thee  safe  amid  temptation's  fires ; 

The  living  bread  that  comcth  down  from  heaven, 
And  satisfies  thine  infinite  desires, — 


GEORGE  EUGENE  BELKNAP.  427 


With  these  go  bravely  forth  to  meet  thy  duty : 
Within  those  gloomy  gates  that  duty  lies. 

Fear  not  the  dimness, — it  will  change  to  beauty 
When  Christ  of  Nazareth  shall  anoint  thine  eyes. 

Beneath  the  weight  of  this  unending  sorrow, 
Behold  Him  bending, — Him  who  died  for  thee  ! 

Hear  how  these  moans  of  human  anguish  borrow 
The  pathos  of  his  pleading  agony  ! 

No  time  remains  for  dreams,  nor  for  complaining ; 

Childhood  is  past, — put  childish  things  away  : 
Christ  calls  thee  by  his  Spirit's  sweet  constraining : 

Arise  and  work  for  him,  while  it  is  day. 

O  world  !  thy  darkness  can  affright  no  longer ! 

Within  its  depths  the  living  God  doth  dwell : 
Evil  is  mighty  ;  but  his  love  is  stronger, — 

Stronger  than  pain  and  sin  and  death  and  hell ! 


Captain  George  E.  Belknap,  U.  S.  N.,  is  a  native  of  Newport  where  he  was  born 
January  22, 1£32.  He  was  appointed  a  Midshipman  in  the  U.  8.  Naval  Service  and 
entered  the  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis,  Md.,  in  1847;  was  graduated  from  that 
institution  in  1854  and  ordered  to  duty  on  Coast  Survey  as  passed  Midshipman; 
commissioned  a  Lieutenant  in  1855;  Lieut.  Commander  in  1S62;  promoted  to  Com 
mander  for  efficient  and  conspicuous  services  during  the  Civil  War;  assigned  to 
special  duty,  in  the  "Tuscarora"  by  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  in  1873,  to  male  deep 
sea  soundings  across  the  North  Pacific  between  California  and  Japan,  and  was 
commissioned  Post  Captain  in  January,  1875.  He  has  been  elected  a  Fellow  of  the 
American  Geographical  Society ;  and  was  awarded  a  silver  medal  by  the  Geograph 
ical  Society  of  France  as  a  recognition  of  merit  for  hydrographies!  work  on  the 
"Tuscarora."  He  is  author  of  papers  on  deep  sea  sdimdings  in  the  Army  and 
Navy  Magazine,  and  is  at  present  in  command  of  U.  S.  Ship  "Alaska"  o"n  the 
South  Pacific  Station.  Captain  Belknap  has  been  an  officer  in  the  U.  S.  Navy  for 
nearly  thirty -five  years,  has  had  important  commands,  and  has  sailed  on  all  seas. 


CHRISTENING  HYMN. 

Saviour,  round  this  font  we  gather, 

This  dear  child  to  offer  thee  ; 
Lift  him  to  thy  gracious  Father, 

Crown  him  with  the  life  to  be  ! 
Hark,  the  angels  list,  awaiting 

One  more  little  soul  to  greet ; 
Lo,  they  fill  the  air  with  singing ; — 

Bid  him  come  with  welcome  sweet. 

"Bring  to  me  the  little  children," 
Blessed  Saviour,  thou  hast  said  ; 

Take,  O  Lord,  this  fresh  young  pilgrim, 
Gently  pillow  his  sweet  head  ; 


428  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

By  this  sign  his  brow  imprinting, 
Pledg'd  is  his  young  soul  to  thee  ; 

Help,  blest  Son  !  these  vows  insuring, 
Now  and  in  eternity  ! 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  pass  it  from  lip  to  lip, 
The  glorious  news  swift  telling  of  this,  the  homeward  ship ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  the  homeward  pennant  flies, 
From  truck  to  water  streaming,  as  if  to  flaunt  the  skies ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  what  music  thrills  the  bay? 
O  'tis  the  boatswain  piping  "all  hands  up  anchor  weigh  !" 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  let  land  and  sea  resound, 
O  shout  the  happy  tidings  for  we  are  homeward  bound  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  did  bird  e'er  sweeter  sing 
Than  pipes  so  cheery  whistling  "all  hands  up  anchor  bring !" 
Coming,  darling,  coining,  O  quick,  "bring-to  the  chain," 
And  ready  bars  swift  shipping,  to  loose  us  on  the  main ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  list  the  merry  din 
Of  capstan  steady  heaving,  to  sound  of  violin  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  heave  ye  jolly  boys, 
The  anchor  quickly  tripping  to  speed  the  coming  joj-s  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  glad  the  cry,  "belay !" 
As  up  the  hawse-pipe  dripping,  the  anchor  hangs  aweigh  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  snug  the  anchor  stow, 
And  see  !  already  curling,  the  waters  'neath  our  prow  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  "aloft!"  "the  sails  unfurl!" 
And  quick  their  wings  expanding,  to  haste  me  to  my  pearl ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  blow  fair  ye  breezes  blow, 
As  o'er  the  billows  bounding,  so  joyously  we  go ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  but  hist !  what  stirring  strain 
Comes  o'er  the  waters  stealing,  so  quickens  heart  and  brain  ? 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  'tis  strain  of  Auld  Lang  Syne 
The  ships  behind  are  playing,  and  O,  with  streaming  eyne ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  sweet,  0  blissful  day, 
So  swiftly  seaward  sailing  down  Yokohama  bay ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  loud  the  beams  do  creak, 
As  far  behind  we're  leaving  fair  Fusigama's  peak ! 


GEOEGE  EUGENE  BELKNAP.  429 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  past  cape  and  headland  lone, 

The  eager  sails  full  blowing  t'Oosima's  smoking  cone. 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  the  dolphin  plays  around, 

And  porpoise,  leaping,  blowing,  in  schools  are  windward  bound. 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  heart,  so  all  alight, 

Slack  not  your  quicken'd  pulsing,  nor  stay  its  rare  delight ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  wing  }"our  breezy  way 

Ye  petrels  round  us  twit'ring,  but  bring  no  storm  today ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  wake  ye  fav'ring  gales, 
And  waft  us  swiftly  speeding  with  grandly  swelling  sails ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  sweet  the  ocean's  foam, 
As  sailing,  flying,  bounding,  we  onward  press  for  home ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  melt  ye  chilling  snows, 
And  skies,  your  clouds  dispersing  a  bluer  blue  disclose  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  ye  lilies  bow  your  heads, 
And  pansies  new  upspririging,  fresh  purple  all  your  beds  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  run  fair  3*6  tidal  flows, 
And  bees,  in  clover  sipping,  go  hum  it  to  the  rose  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  burst  forth  ye  summer  showers, 
And  brooks  with  joyous  babbling  prelude  the  coming  hours  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  away  ye  winter  glooms, 
And  all  the  air  perfuming  burst  forth  ye  apple  blooms  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  laugh  ye  mountain  rills, 
In  quiet  pools  now  dimpling,  now  leaping  down  the  hills  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  throb  ye  ocean  swells, 
In  surges  softly  lulling  as  sound  of  distant  bells ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  fair  mermaids  chant  the  song, 
In  tropic  depths  responding,  corals  and  pearls  among  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  awake  3^6  lord  of  day, 

And  larks  already  soaring,  O  blithely  lead  the  way ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  wave  ye  ripe'ning  grain, 

Your  dewy  heads  bright  glinting,  like  sunshine  mixt  with  rain  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  ring  ye  happy  bells, 
The  uplands  fill  with  clanging,  fling  chimes  o'er  all  the  dells  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coining,  bloom  fresh  ye  fairest  flowers, 
Yet  hold  your  sweetest  blossoms  to  deck  her  sunny  bowers  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  arise  thou  Queen  of  night, 

And  stars,  lend  all  your  twinkling  grand  ocean's  face  to  light ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  glow  ye  fieiy  trails, 

And  Borealis  streaming,  resplendent  deck  the  sails ! 


430  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSIIIEE. 


Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  joyous  swell  the  song, 

As  o'er  the  waters  voicing  its  sweetest  strains  prolong ! 

Corning,  darling,  coming,  O  sweet  the  rush,  the  sound 

Of  waters  rippling,  plashing,  'longside  the  homeward  bound  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  slow  sinks  the  polar  star, 
And  rising,  mounting,  beck'ning  shines  Southern  Cross  afar ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  Pleiads  crown  the  way, 
Your  sweetest  influence  lending  to  haste  the  happy  day  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  whisper  it  o'er  the  leas  ! 
Make  answer  pretty  birdling,  a-floating  o'er  the  seas  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  O  joy  of  homeward  ships, 
The  dreams  of  sweet  enfolding,  and  touch  of  happ}r  lips  ! 

Coming,  darling,  coming,  0  glow  ye  mountain  peaks  ! 
Ye  cables  oceaus  spanning,  flash  it  throughout  the  deeps  ! 
Coming,  darling,  coming,  tell  it  the  wide  world  round, 
O  shout  the  happy  tidings,  for  we  are  homeward  bound ! 


(Srace 

Mrs.  Hinsdale  was  born  at  Hanover,  May  17, 1832.  She  is  the  daughter  of  Charles 
B.  Haddock,  who  for  thirty-five  years  was  a  Professor  in  Dartmouth  College,  and 
who  died  in  l^fjl.  His  mother  was  Abigail  Webster,  the  sister  of  Daniel  aiid  Kze- 
kiel  Webster.  Grace  W.  became  in  1850,  the  wife  of  Hon.  Theodore  Hinsdale,  an 


published  by  Ifcvndolph,  and  republished  in  London  by  Strangtoo  in  1S07.  Her 
work  has  been  chiefly  for  magazines  and  papers.  There"  are  four  of  her  poema  in 
Philip  Schaff's  "Christ  in  Song." 


"LOVEST  THOU  ME?" 

Sweet  was  the  day  I  crowned  thee,  Lord, 

Sweet  were  its  hours  divine  : 
The  day  I  crowned  thee,  in  my  heart ; 

The  day  thou  mad'st  me  thine. 

Oh,  sweet  the  daj-,  when  thy  fair  face 

Drew  all  my  soul  to  thee, 
And,  in  a  blest  exchange  of  love, 

Thou  gav'st  thyself  to  me  ! 

What  holy  passion  stirred  my  heart, 
What  tears  my  joy  outpoured, 

When  thou  didst  come  to  ask  the  love 
Of  one  who  thee  adored ! 


GEACE  WEB IS 'TEE  HINSDALE.  431 

And  them  hast  won  my  soul  at  last ; 

(Who  could  resist  such  grace  ?) 
Again  I  crown  tliee  in  my  heart ; 

None  shall  usurp  thy  place. 


THE  UNBRUISED  GRAIN. 

There's  silence  in  the  mill, 
The  great  wheel  stancleth  still, 
And  leaves  the  grain  unbruised ! 

The  miller,  old  and  graj7, 
Hath  turned  his  face  away 
From  human  life  and  toil. 

His  weary  work  is  done, 
The  stream  of  life  hath  run 
Into  the  boundless  sea. 

No  Ipnger  do  I  hear 

His  pleasant  words  of  cheer, 

As  past  the  mill  I  walk  ; 

The  hand  which  trembling  lay 
On  heaving  breast  to-daj7, 
Is  cold  and  white  and  still. 

And  shall  the  golden  grain 
Lie  waiting  now  in  vain 
For  other  hands  to  work  ? 

The  miller  gray  and  old, 
Who  lieth  dead  and  cold, 
Hath  earned  his  blessed  rest. 

O  j-outli,  take  thou  his  place 
And,  with  uplifted  face, 
Work  thou  for  human  need  ! 

Let  not  life's  force  in  thee 

Unused  and  wasted  be — 

Take  thou  the  true  man's  place  ! 


THE  UNTRODDEN  PATH. 

Outside  the  gate  to  Calvary 

The  Saviour  goes, 
Each  weary  step  his  life-blood  marks, 

As  fast  it  flows  ! 


432  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  scourging  whip  no  pity  won 
For  Jesus  Christ  God's  blessed  Son, 
Yet  bruised  and  torn  He,  patient,  bears, 
For  us,  His  woes  ! 

As,  when  of  old,  the  Patriarch, 

Bound  close  the  wood 
Upon  the  child,  who  wondering  much, 

So  meekly  stood  : 
Thus,  did  the  Lord  the  cursed  tree, 
Bear  midst  his  pain  to  Calvary, 
When  walking,  faint,  his  aching  limbs 

Were  bathed  in  blood  ! 

No  need  to  raise  the  cruel  cross 

Before  His  eye — 
That  seeing  it  He  might  refuse 

To  bleed  and  die  ; 

Salvation's  price  in  heaven  he  learned, 
Yet  Love,  divine,  with  pity  yearned 
To  rescue  souls  estranged  from  God, 

And  bring  them  nigh  ! 

The  Roman  soldier  weaves  a  crown 

For  Him  to  wear, 
Of  pliant  branch  and  sharpened  thorn 

His  flesh  to  tear ; 

No  laurel  wreath,  which  triumph  shows, 
Adorns  His  brow,  as  weak  He  goes, 
Bending  so  low  with  humble  love 

That  death  to  bear  ! 

The}-  drive  the  nail  through  tender  nerves 

Of  foot  and  hand, 
While  scoffing  men,  with  impious  taunts, 

Around  Him  stand ! 
No  blasting  word,  of  righteous  wrath 
Flings  curses  on  His  murderer's  path — 
But  Jesus  prays  that  God  would  bless 

That  guilty  band ! 

The  cross  is  set — and  torture,  keen, 

Shows  on  His  face, — 
Yet  no  distress  or  agony 

Exhausts  His  grace ! 
"I  thirst,"  He  cries,  and,  quick  to  mock, 
They  offer  Him  the  hyssop  stalk  ; 
Though  Lord  of  life  He,  patient,  waits 

For  death's  slow  pace  ! 


GEACE  WEBSTER  HINSDALE.  433 

And  soon  it  comes — the  earth  is  dark 

'Neath  blotted  sun, 
The  mighty  work  of  saving  man 

At  length  is  done — 
Sweet  peace  is  gained,  and  sin  atoned, 
And  man,  once  more,  God's  child  is  owned, 
The  emptied  graves  declare  that  Christ 

Hath  victory  won ! 


LISTENING  TO  THE  SEA. 

What  art  thou  saying,  restless  sea? 

Why  canst  thou  never,  never  rest? 
Whisper,  across  thy  blue  to  me, 

The  secrets  of  thy  swelling  breast ! 

Tireless  and  boundless  are  thy  waves — 
Thy  fickle  heart  is  treacherous  too — 

And  in  thy  deep  and  dreadful  caves 
Lie  treasures,  hid  from  human  view. 

Oh  moaning  sea,  what  dost  thou  say  ; 

Hast  thou  thy  promise  kept  to  me  ? 
I  trusted  one,  more  dear  than  life, 

Upon  thy  billows — faithless  sea  ! 

How,  like  a  vexed  and  troubled  soul, 
Thy  waves  are  moving  to  and  fro, 

And,  with  a  dirge  thy  billows  roll, 
O'er  all  the  dead,  who  sleep  below. 

I  am  not  gladdened  by  the  flash 
Of  sunlight,  on  thy  dashing  foam, 

Nor  can  I  laugh  amidst  the  winds, 

Which,  wild  o'er  thy  vast  desert,  roam. 

No  friend  art  thou  to  human  hearts, 

0  cruel,  false,  yet  glittering  sea ! 
How  hast  thou  severed  souls  that  loved  ! 

1  sing  no  joyous  song  to  thee. 

Yet,  when  thy  giant-strength  is  roused, 
By  winds  which  stir  thy  might}'  tide, 

I  own  Jehovah's  dreadful  power, 
Which  doth  upon  thy  billows  ride. 

But,  far  beneath  the  raging  storm, 
All  peaceful  sleep  the  patient  dead, 

There  kings  and  slaves,  earth's  weary  ones, 
Await  the  summons  from  their  bed. 


434  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Her  little  child  the  mother  holds, 

With  clinging  arms,  which  death  has  chilled, 

But  silence  reigns  in  Neptune's  halls, 

For  hearts  are  hushed,  and  lips  are  stilled. 

No  flattering  song,  with  loving  tone, 

Bursts  from  niy  lips,  dark,  treacherous  sea, — 

My  heart  is  trembling  with  its  fear, 
Whene'er  I  dare  to  think  of  thee. 

Thou  bear'st  my  life  upon  thy  breast, 
Thou  tak'st  my  all  of  jo}*  from  me — 

Oh,  spare  my  heart,  and  show  thy  love, 
If  thou  canst  love — deceitful  sea. 


RAPHAEL'S  MADONNA  DI  SAN  SISTO. 

Written  after  viewing  the  magnificent  picture  in  the  royal  gallery  at  Dresden. 

Thou  stand'st  between  the  earth  and  heaven, 

Sweet  Mary,  with  thy  boy  ; 
And  on  thy  young  and  lovely  face 

Linger  surprise  and  joy. 

The  angel's  words  are  sounding  yet 

In  thy  attentive  ear ; 
Thou  hold'st  thy  child  most  tenderly, 

And  yet  with  awe  and  fear. 

Almost  a  frightened  look  thou  hast, 

As  if  within  thy  thought 
The  glory  of  thy  motherhood 

An  anxious  burden  brought. 

Thou  dar'st  not  clasp  the  holy  child 

With  freedom  to  thy  breast. 
And  yet  because  he  is  thine  own 

Thou  look'st  supremely  blest. 

God  gave  the  boy  into  thine  arms, 

And  thou  his  mother  art — 
And  yet  the  words  the  angel  spoke 

Are  lingering  in  thy  heart. 

Thou  canst  not  call  him  quite  thine  own, 

And  when  upon  thy  knee 
He  sleeps  as  other  infants  sleep, 

Thou  dost  a  glory  see, 


GRACE  WEBSTER  HINSDALE. 


Which  fills  thee  with  a  kind  of  awe, 

And  makes  thee  tremble  so, 
That  thou  dost  lay  thy  baby  down, 

And,  bending  very  low, 

Dost  ask  the  Father  why  he  sent 

A  babe  divine  to  thee, 
And,  pouring  out  th}?  troubled  heart, 

Dost  seek  his  sympathy. 

Oh  Mary,  loved  of  God  and  man, 

Let  all  thy  fears  depart, 
For  God  will  send  his  Spirit  down, 

To  guide  thy  anxious  heart — 

And  thou  shalt  rear  the  blessed  child 

Cheered  by  his  smile  divine, 
And  in  thy  sweet  and  humble  home 

Shall  God's  veiled  glory  shine. 

But  oh !  I  dread  for  thee  the  hour 
When  thou  shalt  stand  alone 

Beneath  the  cross  where  God's  dear  Son 
Shall  for  man's  sin  atone. 

A  sword  shall  enter  then  thine  heart 

And  leave  such  bitter  pain, 
That  thou  wilt  kneel  in  agony, 

Inquiring  once  again, 

Why  God  should  crush  thee  with  a  grief 

No  other  heart  could  share, 
And  why  in  utter  loneliness 

Thou  must  the  anguish  bear. 

And  Oh  !  I  see  another  day 

\Vhen  thou  shalt  wondering  stand, 

Amidst  a  throng  who  welcome  thee, 
In  heaven,  the  blessed  land. 

And  then  the  Lord  who  lived  on  earth 

Clothed  in  humility, 
Shall  sit  upon  his  Father's  throne 

In  radiant  majesty. 

The  angels  then  shall  lead  thy  feet 
Across  the  crystal  sea, 

thou  shalt  reach  the  blessed  One 
Who  lived  and  died  for  thee  ; 


436  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy  grateful  praise  shall  swell  the  song 
Which  rises  toward  the  throne, 

For  then  the  mysteries  of  earth 
Shall  all  be  fully  known. 

Sweet  Mary  !  when  the  gates  of  life 
Death's  hand  unlocks  for  me, 

I  shall  discern  thy  lovely  face, 
By  its  humility. 


(ftaraltne  Enastasia  Spatting. 

Miss  Spalding  is  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Phineas  Spalding.  She  is  a  native  of  Lyndon, 
Vt.  Dr.  Spaldiug  removed  with  his  family  to  llayerhill  in  1840.  Caroline's  educa 
tion  was  carefully  attended  to  while  young.  She  is  a  graduate  of  Mount  Holyoke 
Seminary.  She  is  very  retiring  in  her  disposition  and  has  ever  avoided  notoriety. 
Her  writings  are  mostly  of  a  moral  and  religious  character.  She  has  one  prize 
poem  published  by  the  New  York  Observer  in  book  form.  Many  of  her  poems 
have  never  been  published.  Her  prose  writings  have  been  published  from  time  to 
time  in  various  newspapers,  such  as  the  N.  Y.  Observer,  Courier  and  Enquirer,  the 
N.  Y.  Independent,  Christian  Union,  Boston  Congrogationalist,  Vermont  Chronicle, 
New  Hampshire  Journal,  etc.  She  has  never  engaged  in  teaching,  except  in  music, 
on  account  of  her  health.  She  has  been  a  most  devoted  teacher  in  the  Sabbath 
School  for  over  thirty  years,  and  has  been  organist  at  church  for  over  fifteen  years. 


ARCHITECTURE. 

I  too  was  a  builder — long,  long  years  ago, 
I  built  me  a  palace— I  made  it  of  snow ! 
Its  style  was  unique,  for  it  had  but  one  door, 
And  my  household  of  dolls  all  sat  on  the  floor. 

It  had  arches  and  turrets,  pillars  and  dome, 
My  model  I  found  in  a  picture  of  Rome ; 
But  the  columns  of  ciystal,  m}'  structure  upheld, 
No  marble  of  Ital}"  ever  excellefl. 

It  was  crested  with  diamonds  a  princess  might  own, 
They  were  made  by  the  sunbeams  on  it  that  shone, 
While  no  mother-of-pearl,  from  the  waters  below, 
Was  ever  as  pure  as  my  palace  of  snow. 

Its  lawns  were  like  velvet,  and  terraces  too, 
I  planted  the  wood-moss  around  it  that  grew, 
While  evergreen  twigs  from  a  sunshiny  glade, 
Now  gracefully  bending,  an  avenue  made. 

No  gaudy  exotics  bloomed  in  my  parterre, 
/But  the  red  mountain-ash  berries  always  were  there, 
And  scarlet  seed-cups,  from  rose-withered  leaves, 
Leaned  over  the  brooklet  that  ran  from  the  eaves. 


CAEOLINE  ANASTASIA  SPALDING.  437 

But  alas  !  when  the  noontide  fell  with  its  heat ! 
I  snatched  my  poor  dolls  from  their  dripping  retreat, 
While  the}-  never  dreamed  half  the  anguish  I  felt, 
\Vlien  I  found  my  beautiful  palace  would  melt. 

Years  passed,  but  not  yet  bringing  shadows  of  care, 
Again  I  built  castles — but  these  were  of  air ! 
And  their  tall  minarets  uprose  to  the  sky,0 
With  hues  like  the  rainbow  when  sunbeams  are  nigh. 

No  marvel  of  beaut}r,  painter  e'er  dreamed, 
No  work  of  the  sculptor  half  as  fair  seemed, 
No  visions  that  poet  or  fable  e'er  feigned 
Exceeded  the  fancies  my  castles  contained. 

There  was  music  whose  rapturous  strains  charmed  the  ear, 
Harmonious  chords  the  earth-born  cannot  hear ; 
Ah  !  no  treasures  of  genius  or  art  could  compare 
With  the  wonderful  things  in  my  castles  of  air. 

But  life  brought  its  lessons,  practical,  real, 
Experience  shattered  the  fairest  ideal, 
And  the  air-castles  vanished,  long  time  ago, 
More  quickly,  indeed,  than  the  structure  of  snow. 

And  then  I  built  ships — from  the  stern  to  the  prow, 
They  were  stanch,  fresh  and  new — I  sometimes  see  them  now  ! 
While  from  mast  and  from  rigging  flags  floated  afar, 
And  gay-colored  streamers  embellished  each  spar. 

They  had  jewels  and  diamonds  and  pearls  for  their  freight, 
They  had  Hope  for  their  captain  and  Joy  for  their  mate, 
And  as  over  the  waters  they  bounded  along, 
Each  dash  of  the  waves  brought  back  paeans  of  song. 

They  are  still  on  the  sea — but  under  what  sky 
The  blue,  stany  folds  of  their  pennons  do  fly, 
I  know  not — I  ask  not — nor  where  they  have  been, 
For  they  are  the  ships  that  will  "never  come  in  !" 

Then  I  said,  "It  is  vain — each  work  of  my  hand, 
My  fabrics  all  crumble,  they're  built  upon  sand  ; 
My  silver  is  tarnished,  my  idols  are  clay  ; 
My  air-castles  vanish,  my  ships  float  away  ! 

But  a  city  there  ts,  with  its  "jasper  wall," 
As  clear  as  the  waters  of  crystal  that  fall, 
A  city  that  far  beyond  time  shall  endure, 
For  its  "twelve  foundations"  are  solid  and  sure  ! 


438  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

They  are  garnished  with  topaz,  and  emeralds  rare, 
While  the  gates  made  of  pearl  are  never  closed  there  ; 
For  angels  keep  guard,  where  no  mortal  has  trod, 
O'er  the  streets  of  that  cit}r,  whose  Maker  is  God  ! 

And  the  promise  remains,  our  hopes  to  inspire, 
To  those  who  a  "heavenly  country"  desire, 
The  Builder  himself,  in  His  word  has  declared 
He  hath  for  the  faithful  a  "city  prepared." 

Then  if  we  but  strive  his  commandments  to  do, 
Those  beautiful  gates  we  may  all  enter  through, 
As  heirs  of  His  kingdom — who  sits  on  the  throne, 
For  the  Lamb  that  was  slain  is  the  "chief-corner-stone." 


MARY  LYON. 

Long  years  have  passed  since  in  thy  dreamless  sleeping 
They  laid  thee  where  the  willow  branches  wave  ; 

Snow-drops  and  daisies  each  in  turn  are  keeping 
Their  peaceful  vigils  o'er  thy  hallowed  grave. 

Thou  didst  not  wait  to  see  the  shadows  gather, 
The  calm,  sweet  hush  that  tells  the  day  is  done  ; 

But  in  the  heat  and  toil  of  noonday,  rather, 
The  heights  were  scaled,  the  long-fought  victoiy  won. 

Thou  art  not  dead  !  through  other  living  voices 
Th}"  blessed  words  are  flowing  on  to-day  ; 

And  many  a  stricken,  bleeding  heart  rejoices, 
As  raj-s  of  heavenly  light  illume  her 


Beside  the  bank  of  India's  flowing  waters, 
Beneath  the  branches  of  the  spreading  palm, 

Thy  teachings,  through  the  lips  of  Holyoke  daughters, 
Fall  on  the  ear  like  drops  of  healing  balm. 

The  echoes  of  thy  voice  e'en  now  are  stealing 

Through  Turkish  mosques  and  shining  Chinese  towers  ; 

The  tidings  of  a  Saviour's  love  revealing 

To  dark-eyed  maidens  in  the  Persian  bowers. 

'Mid  islands  of  the  sea,  perfumed  with  beauty, 
Or  'neath  the  scorching  sun  of  Afric's  sky, 

Thy  warning  notes  and  stirring  calls  to  duty 
Lift  from  the  dust  the  spirits  doomed  to  die. 

And  who  shall  say  what  high  and  holy  striving 
For  purer  lives  and  nobler  deeds  of  worth, 


CAROLINE  ANA8TA8IA  SPALDING.  439 

Kindled  by  tlry  example,  here  is  thriving 
To  bless  and  elevate  this  sinful  earth  ? 

How  vain  and  worthless  seems  all  earthly  glory ! 

How  dim  the  gilding  on  the  rolls  of  fame  ; 
While  with  admiring  e}-e  we  read  the  story 

Of  thy  great  life  and  thy  immortal  name. 

Oh,  noble  heart,  to  noble  deeds  aspiring! 

Alike  unstained  by  worldliness  or  guile, 
In  self-denying  acts  and  zeal  untiring, 

Now  basking  in  the  sunlight  of  the  Father's  smile. 

We  look  upon  thy  life  like  some  vast  mountain 

Towering  in  grandeur  far  above  the  plain  ; 
While  from  its  summit  flows  a  ceaseless  fountain 

Refreshing  the  parched  earth  with  cooling  rain. 

Gentle,  refined,  with  woman's  true  devotion, 

No  aspirations  for  a  "manly  sphere  ;" 
Yet  filled  with  every  lofty,  grand  emotion — 

"Neglect  of  duty"  all  that  thou  didst  "fear." 

Sleep  on  in  peace  !  Thy  life  work  still  progressing ; 

Thy  name  through  coming  years  shall  hallowed  be, 
Till  praising  God  for  this,  his  priceless  blessing, 

Thy  "stars"  are  gathered  by  the  "jasper  sea." 


THE  QUAKER  MEETING. 

A  summer  day  of  quiet  peace, 

All  save  the  billow's  roar, 
Where  ocean  breezes  swept  the  isle, 

And  ocean  waves  the  shore. 

Sweet  Sabbath  calm !  the  cares  of  life 

Hushed  in  a  blest  repose, 
We  joined  the  silent  group  whose  faith 

No  outward  utterance  shows. 

On  plain,  hard  benches  sisters  sat, 

Brothers  across  the  way ; 
No  voice  escaped  from  those  broad-brims, 

None  from  the  bonnets  gray. 

We  tried  in  vain  to  bring  our  souls 
Into  a  heavenly  frame, 


440  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Their  heads  were  bowed  in  silent  prayer ; 
Ours  should  have  been,  in  shame. 

For  worldly  thoughts  came  stealing  in ; 

We  missed  the  gathered  throng, 
The  frescoed  wall,  the  organ's  peal, 

The  priest,  the  prayer,  the  song ! 

And  so  unbidden  visions  came, 

Echoes  would  not  be  stilled, 
The  "Quaker  Poet"  and  his  dreams 

The  vacant  places  filled. 

O'er  Mary  Garvin,  sunbeams  played, 

And  on  Maud  Muller's  brow  ; 
A  gray-haired  matron's  placid  face 

Was  Barbara  Frietchie's  now. 

Good  Parson  Avery  took  his  seat 

By  Andrew  R3-kman's  side  ; 
While  next  to  Abraham  Davenport 

The  Barefoot  Boy  we  spied. 

"The  orchard  birds  sang  sweet  and  clear," 
"Pines"  moaned  on  "Ramoth  Hill," 

The  "lilies"  wafted  from  the  "pond" 
Their  "benediction  still." 

At  length  the  hour  for  parting  came, 

Our  visions  fled  in  air ! 
The  silent  group  grasped  silent  hands, 

And  left  the  house  of  prayer. 

And  this  the  lesson  that  we  learned 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  day ; 
That  loving  souls  can  worship  God 

Each  in  his  silent  way. 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

A  scene  of  rarest  beauty, 

Where  wood  and  lake  and  sky 

Were  dressed  in  regal  splendor 
Entrancing  to  the  eye. 

Our  souls  had  been  uplifted 

Above  the  things  of  earth, 
Its  petty  cares  and  triumphs 

Seemed  of  such  trivial  worth. 


CAROLINE  ANASTA8IA  SPALDING.  441 

For  amid  nature's  grandeur 

We  spent  the  autumn  day  ; 
Through  gorge  and  mountain  passes 

We  took  our  wondering  wajv 

And  now  the  lengthening  shadows 

The  even-tide  foretold, 
The  clouds  had  added  crimson 

To  draperies  of  gold  ! 

We  sat  in  restful  silence 

Beside  the  tranquil  lake, 
With  only  woodland  voices 

The  peaceful  calm  to  break. 

The  pines  were  whispering  o'er  us, 

The  mosses  fringed  the  ground, 
The  ferns  and  fragrant  birches 

Their  odors  shed  around. 

But  far  above  us,  standing 

Right  out  against  the  sky, 
A  calm,  stern  face  uplifted 

Its  granite  brow  on  high. 

No  trace  of  mortal  weakness, 

Majestic,  fearful,  grand ; 
A  piece  of  nature's  sculpture 

Carved  by  the  Master's  hand.  • 

The  whirlwind  may  encircle 

That  rocky,  firm  retreat, 
The  winter  snows  enshroud  it, 

The  storm  in  fury  beat ; 

But  still  unmoved,  unyielding, 

Th'  impassive  face  looks  down  ; 
No  smile  the  sunbeam  wakens, 

The  tempest  brings  no  frown. 

The  thunder  peals  unheeded, 

The  lightnings  o'er  it  flash, 
As  harmless  as  the  ripples 

Upon  the  shore  that  dash ! 

Oh  Thou  all-glorious  Father ! 

Whose  hand  these  wonders  piled, 
Lifting  the  mountain  masses 

In  beauty  strangely  wild  ; — 


442  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Who,  with  unerring  wisdom, 
Long  ages  since  didst  place 

Far  up  among  the  sunbeams 
This  calm,  unchanging  face, 

Give  us  the  strength  to  conquer 
The  ills  that  crowd  our  wa}r, 

The  foes  without,  the  snares  within, 
The  wiles  that  lead  astray. 

To  bear  unmoved  the  tempest ; 

Fearless  and  undismayed 
To  walk  beneath  the  sunshine, 

Remembering  it  must  fade. 

Farewell,  thou  mountain  teacher ! 

This  lesson  let  us  learn, 
As  in  the  labyrinth  of  life 

Our  wandering  steps  return. 

He  who,  with  sure  foundation, 
A  loft}"  height  has  won 

Need  not  to  fear  the  whirlwind, 
Nor  faint  beneath  the  sun. 


WHITHER? 

'Whither  goest  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou?" — Judges  xix :  17. 

I  come  from  a  land  of  beauty, 

Where  skies  are  entrancingly  fair, 
Where  the  flowers  are  dressed  in  their  regal  robes, 

And  their  perfume  floats  on  the  air. 
But  the  blossoms  wither  as  night-dews  fall, 
And  the  drooping  petals  become  a  pall. 

I  come  from  a  land  of  promise, 

Where  the  rainbow  is  spanning  the  cloud, 

Where  the  song  of  the  skylark  is  cheering 
The  heart  that  is  earthward  bowed. 

But  the  bright  hues  fade  on  the  darkening  sky, 

And  the  strains  of  the  music  in  echoes  die. 

I  come  from  a  land  of  changes, 

Where  nothing  but  death  is  sure, 
Where  the  tempest  follows  the  sunbeam, 

And  the  meteor-flashes  allure  ; 
Where  the  heart  grows  cold  ere  it  turns  into  dust, 
Where  the  moth  consumes  and  the  treasures  rust. 


CAEOLINE  ANASTA8IA  SPALDING.  443 

I  come  from  a  land  of  trial, 

Temptation  and  bitter  strife, 
Where  the  good  that  we  would  we  do  not, 

Where  the  conflict  ends  but  with  life, 
Where  the  path  is  beset  with  pitfalls  and  snares, 
Where  the  reaper  seeks  grain  and  only  finds  tares. 

I  come  from  a  land  of  parting, 

Where  the  loved  of  the  early  days 
With  curtained  eye  and  with  unclasped  hand 

Pass  helplessly  from  our  gaze  ; 
Where  we  dare  not  cling  to  the  loving  and  fair, 
Lest  the  black-plumed  wing  should  be  hovering  there. 

I  go  to  a  land  of  beauty, 

More  fair  than  the  poets  have  told, 
Where  the  waving  palms  and  the  jasper  wall, 

And  the  streets  of  the  purest  gold, 
And  the  gates  of  pearl  by  the  ciystal  sea, 
Are  but  symbols  dim  of  the  glories  to  be. 

I  go  to  a  land  of  promise, 

Where  the  rainbow  around  the  throne 
Is  the  pledge  that  none  of  His  words  shall  fail 

Wherewith  he  had  gathered  his  own. 
No  broken  chords  in  the  harmony  there ! 
No  heaven-born  hopes  exchanged  for  despair. 

I  go  to  a  land  unclouded 

By  any  shadowing  night, 
Where  "they  need  no  candle  or  sunbeam," 

For  our  God  is  its  changeless  light. 
Where  the  dazzling  beams  on  our  vision  that  fall 
Are  but  wandering  rays  from  the  fountain  of  all. 

I  go  to  a  land  celestial, 

Where  God  wipes  away  all  the  tears, 
Where  the  former  things  have  departed, 
vThe  sorrows,  the  pain  and  the  fears  ; 
Where  "beauty  for  ashes,"  and  joy  for  our  woe, 
When  he  "makes  up  his  jewels,"  his  hand  will  bestow. 

Oh,  glorious,  beautiful  land  ! 

Unworthy  and  fettered  by  sin, 
How  dare  1  hope  for  a  vision 

Of  all  the  glories  within  ? 
His  promise  is  sure,  his  robe  shelters  me, 
"Where  the  Master  is,  there  the  servant  shall  be." 


444  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

HIS  OWN. 

"They  shall  be  as  the  stones  of  a  crown."— Zechariah  ix :  16. 

The  Master  came  to  our  dwelling, 

And  left  us  a  jewel  one  day, 
To  be  cherished  and  guarded  and  polished 

Till  it  shone  with  luminous  ray. 
We  knew  it  was  all  for  His  service, 

But  the  gem  in  such  beauty  shone 
We  almost  forgot,  as  we  watched  it, 

It  was  not  indeed  our  own  ! 

The  burdens  of  life  grew  lighter, 

The  home  was  a  holier  place, 
The  clouds  in  our  daily  journey 

Left  only  a  passing  trace. 
And  we  thought,  what  a  blessed  mission 

To  keep  in  our  tenderest  care 
The  jewel  our  Master  entrusts  us, 

So  beautiful,  bright  and  fair ! 

We  knew  that  the  lengthening  shadows 

Would  steal  o'er  our  path  some  day, 
But  we  hoped  the  light  at  the  hearth-stone 

Would  shine  with  a  quenchless  ray  ; 
That  we  were  to  be  the  keepers 

Of  this  treasure  from  the  skies, 
Till  our  weary  hands  were  folded, 

And  the  curtain  veiled  our  eyes  ! 

Then  a  darkness  thick  o'erwhelmed  us, 

We  groped  in  its  stifling  breath, 
For  our  hearts  were  torn  and  bleeding 

By  the  might}'  hand  of  death. 
The  Master  had  taken  his  treasure, 

The  jewel  that  was  his  own, 
And  the  added  beauties  of  heaven 

In  its  radiant  lustre  shone  ! 

So  now  with  our  upward  yearnings, 

Since  the  light  of  our  home  is  fled, 
We  bear  the  burdens  unshrinking, 

And  the  daily  pathway  tread. 
For  heaven,  with  all  of  its  glory, 

Is  brighter  and  lovelier  yet, 
For  amid  the  "stones  of  the  crown" 

Our  beautiful  jewel  is  set. 


CAROLINE  ANA8TASIA  SPALDING.  445 

ANGELS  THIS  SIDE. 

Not  alwaj-s  do  they  come  with  hovering  wings, 
Along  the  path  our  weary  footsteps  tread, 

To  shield  us  from  the  taint  of  earthly  things, 
Or  solace  hearts  from  which  all  hope  is  fled. 

Sometimes  in  lowly,  russet  garments  clad, 
With  hands  all  hardened  by  their  daily  toil, 

They  lift  the  burdens  from  a  life  most  sad, 
And  gather  blossoms  from  the  humble  soil. 

Sometimes  the  music  of  a  child's  sweet  voice, 
Its  shout  of  welcome  or  its  pitying  sigh, 

Will  cause  the  drooping  spirit  to  rejoice, 
And  raise  the  soul  to  clearer  light  on  high. 

Angels  attend  us  in  the  guise  of  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  any  white-robed  spirit  band, 

Making  the  sick  room  with  its  weary  hours 
An  Eden  by  celestial  breezes  fanned. 

For  with  the  rustling  of  their  perfumed  bells 
Come  messages  of  love  from  friends  most  dear. 

Of  hope  and  trust  each  tiny  leaflet  tells, 

Smiles  for  our  joys,  and  for  our  woes  a  tear. 

The}*  breathe  it  in  the  lonely  winds  of  night ; 

The  odor  of  the  lilies  whispers  now 
Sweet  words  of  courage  comforting  and  bright, 

As  if  an  angel  cooled  the  fevered  brow. 

Ah,  not  alone  within  the  pearly  gates 

The  ministering  spirits  gathered  stand  ! 
In  our  bleak  desert  even  now  there  waits 

A  shining  host  of  the  angelic  band  ! 

We  press  their  hands,  we  look  into  their  eyes, 
We  hear  their  words,  the  faithful  and  the  tried ; 

And  then  we  murmur,  in  our  glad  surprise, 
"God  bless  the  angels  that  we  find  this  side  !" 


HEAVEN. 

Oh  beautiful  land  of  the  dim  unseen  ! 
Where  the  mortal  shadow  hath  never  been  ! 
Where  the  angels  stand  with  their  folded  wings, 
And  strike  their  harps  to  the  King  of  kings  ! 


446  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Where  the  faints  are  clothed  in  their  robes  of  white, 
And  on  eve^  head  is  a  crown  of  light, 
While  the  anthem  peals,  in  a  rapturous  strain, 
"Glory  and  power  to  the  Lamb  that  was  slain," 

Oh  the  gates  of  pearl  and  the  streets  of  gold  ! 
Symbols  to  us  of  the  riches  untold, 
For  who  shall  compare  an  earthly  gem 
With  the  stars  in  the  Saviour's  diadem  ? 

Oh  blessed  land,  where  no  taint  of  sin 
Shall  ever  enter  the  portals  within, 
Where  doubts  and  repinings  and  self  and  pride 
Are  lost  in  hosannas  to  Him  who  died ! 

Oh  haven  of  peace,  where  the  storm  is  o'er  ! 
Oh  healing  tree,  on  the  emerald  shore  ! 
Oh  fadeless  day,  with  no  shadowing  night ! 
For  the  Lord  our  God  is  its  changeless  light. 

Bright,  beautiful  land  of  the  dim  unseen  ! 
Where  the  wearied  footsteps  have  never  been  ; 
Where  sorrow  is  banished,  and  cares  and  fears, 
Where  they  reap  in  joy,  that  have  sown  in  tears ! 

God  grant  that  at  last,  in  the  final  day, 
When  sects  and  creeds  shall  be  scattered  awa}r, 
With  more  trusting  hearts,  and  with  sweeter  lays, 
We  may  all  unite  in  our  Saviour's  praise  ! 


i3urnt)am. 


8amuel  Burnhnm  was  born  in  Rindge,  February  21, 1833.  He  was  the  only  son 
of  Amos  W.  Burnham,  D.  D.,  who  was  a  Congregational  minister  settled  in  Kindge 
in  18-21,  and  who  remained  pastor  of  the  church  for  nearly  fifty  years.  Samuel,  at 
the  age  of  eighteen  years,  entered  Williams  College  and  graduated  in  1855.  For  a 
year  or  two  after  leaving  college  he  was  principal  of  the  academy  in  Amherst. 
Afterwards  he  went  to  Boston  and  entered  upon  that  career  of  literary  industry 
which  continued  till  his  death.  He  was  employed  by  Gen.  Sumner  to  write  the 
history  of  East  Boston,  a  work  of  about  seven  hundred  pages.  After  this  he  bo- 
came  connected  with  the  Boston  Tract  Society,  and  wrote  for  the  society  some 
small  volumes  setting  forth  the  facts  and  wonders  of  Natural  History.  For  two 
years  he  was  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Congrcoationalist,  Only  a  little  while  l>e 
fore  his  death  he  prepared  for  the  press  a  full  edition  of  the  works  of  Charles 
Sumuer,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  at  work  upon  the  history  of  the  Old 
South  Church  of  Boston.  These  are  but  a  small  part  of  his  literary  labors,  lie. 
died  June  22, 1873. 


EXTRACT, 

From  a  Poem  delivered  at  Williams  College  at  Commencement  in  18tt-.». 

O  now  is  the  time  when  indeed  'tis  worth  living, 
Yes,  now  is  the  time  when  heroes  are  made  ! 

When  we  for  our  country  our  life's  blood  are  giving, 
When  right  against  wrong  is  in  battle  arrayed. 


SAMUEL  BUENHAM.  447 

Rejoice  that  you  live  when  your  native  land  calls  you 
To  fight  for  the  flag  of  the  noble  and  brave  ; 

Indifferent  what  be  the  fate  that  befalls  you, 
A  hero's  proud  life — a  martyr's  lone  grave. 

In  the  far  southern  land  our  brothers  are  dying, 

With  rifle  in  hand  and  face  to  the  foe ; 
In  many  a  lone  grave  their  bodies  are  lying, 

To  many  a  lone  heart  come  tidings  of  woe. 

O  rouse  in  thy  might ! — the  war-cry  is  ringing  ! 

O'er  hill  and  through  plain  the  alarum  is  heard  ; 
The  God  of  our  fathers  sure  vengeance  is  bringing 

On  dark-hearted  traitors  who've  taken  the  sword. 

Fair  Liberty,  long  the  poor  outcast  of  nations, 
Has  chosen  her  home  in  this  land  of  the  West ; 

And  heaven  shall  be  torn  from  eternal  foundations, 
Ere  she  fail  to  find  here  a  haven  of  rest. 

The  storm-cloud  of  war  envelopes  the  nation  ; 

Earth  reels  with  the  shock  as  the  huge  tempest  breaks  ; 
New  battle-fields  shudder  with  red  desolation, 

As  the  laud  from  its  long  sleep  of  peace  now  awakes. 

Hark  !  hear  the  loud  tramp  of  the  mustering  legions, 
Resistless  in  numbers  and  firm  in  their  tread  ; 

From  East  and  from  West,  and  from  far  distant  regions, 
They  solemnly  march  to  the  field  of  the  dead. 

See  slowly  uprising  the  smoke  of  the  battle  ; 

The  dull  heavy  cloud  b}r  the  lightning's  flash  riven  ; — 
Hark  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  the  musketry  rattle, 

And  the  din  of  the  contest  that  rises  to  heaven. 

The  angel  of  death  o'er  the  dark  field  is  bending  ; 

With  skeleton  finger  is  marking  his  prey  ; 
O  God  !  hear  the  praj'ers  of  a  nation  ascending, 

And  turn  our  dark  night  of  horror  to  day. 

O  God  of  our  fathers, — the  God  of  our  nation  ! 

Our  faith  is  unwavering — our  trust  is  in  thee  ; 
O  hear  our  petition — our  land  grant  salvation, 

And  smile  once  again  on  the  home  of  the  free. 

How  long,  O  how  long  shall  this  storm-cloud  hang  o'er  us  ? 

How  long  ere  the  blood-stained  sword  shall  be  sheathed  ? 
How  great  is  the  terrible  conflict  before  us, 

How  long  ere  the  cannon  with  flowers  shall  be  wreathed  ? 


448  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Not  yet,  no,  not  yet,  will  the  battle  be  ended  ; 

We  shrink  from  the  path  God  bids  us  to  take ; 
The  cries  of  the  bondmen  to  heaven  have  ascended, 

And  now  is  God's  time  their  fetters  to  break  ! 

O'er  the  din  of  the  battle,  o'er  war's  desolation, 
Like  heavj'-toned  thunder,  or  the  roar  of  the  sea, 

God  utters  his  voice  in  the  ear  of  the  nation, 

And  all  the  world  hears,  "Let  my  people  go  free !" 

Nor  justice  nor  mercy  ever  have  slumbered  ; 

God's  plagues  have  been  on  us  for  all  this  abuse ! 
The  days  of  their  bondage  in  Egypt  are  numbered, 

Thank  Heaven,  we've  no  Pharaoh  who'll  dare  to  refuse  ! 

And  then,  like  the  first  flash  of  sunlight  from  heaven, 

Will  victory  dawn  on  a  glorious  day  ; 
And  then,  like  clouds  by  the  mountain  winds  driven, 

Will  trouble  and  sorrow  flee  southward  away ! 

And  lo  Triumphe  usher  in  the  bright  day ! 


INNER  LIFE. 

Extract  from  a  College  Poem. 

Yet  there  are  precious  times  when  we  delight 

To  shut  the  heartless  world  from  out  our  sight ; 

When  sacred  thoughts  within  our  inmost  soul, 

Thoughts  ours  alone  come  welling  up,  and  roll 

In  ebb  and  flow,  and  dreamy  mists  arise, 

And  gush  in  tear  drops  from  the  half  closed  eyes  ; 

When  precious  memories  of  other  years, 

The  man}r  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears 

Which  crowd  a  lifetime,  seem  to  us  again 

To  be  lived  over  in  the  soul ;  and  when 

No  notes  discordant  mar  the  harmony 

Which  wrap  the  senses  in  sweet  ecstasy, 

As  when  rich  music  falls  upon  the  ear, 

Anon  far  distant,  and  anon,  so  near, 

The  chords,  as  struck  b}'  more  than  human  art, 

Glide  gently  through  the  chambers  of  the  heart ; 

And  in  the  silence,  hear  the  warbling  note 

Of  rarest  melodies  that  gently  float 

On  the  hushed  air,  while  from  the  weird-like  theme. 

Embossed  in  shining  notes,  a  fringe  doth  seern 

To  hang,  of  liquid  dropping  notes,  which  round 

The  massive  chords  are  so  harmonious  wound. 


SAMUEL  BUENHAM.  449 

How  true  it  is  no  spoken  words  can  give 

Form  to  the  best  of  thoughts  which  in  us  live  ! 

There  is  within  a  life  that's  all  our  own, — 

Unread — unspoken — save  to  us,  unknown. 

The  outer  world  may  frown,  and  false  prove  those 

On  whom  our  weary  hearts  would  fain  repose,  . 

And  still  within  there  is  a  fond  relief 

Of  untold  value,  even  in  its  grief. 

There  is  a  twilight  of  the  soul  in  which  we  sit, 

And  watch  our  petted  fancies  as  they  noiseless  flit 

In  the  stray  sunbeams  which  will  sometimes  steal 

Into  our  darkest  corners,  and  we  almost  feel 

As  if  old  earth  had  vanished  from  our  sight, 

And  up  to  heaven  the  soul  had  taken  flight. 


"BUM  VIVIMUS  VIVAMUS." 

Extract  from  a  College  Poem. 

A  glorious  motto  this,  for  human  life  ! 
With  all  its  turmoil  and  its  war  and  strife. 
Act  out  life  nobly  !     Live,  man,  while  you  live  ! 
And  to  the  good  and  right  }Tour  powers  give, 
Ne'er  rest  from  labor  nor  your  work  think  done 
'Till  o'er  the  grave  your  last  great  victor's  won. 
Live  earnest  lives,  fight  manfully  with  sin, 
Fight  for  the  right,  and  God  and  you  will  win. 
Live  while  you  live, — let  eveiy  passing  hour 
Some  trophy  show  of  well  directed  power, 
Relieve  some  soul  with  troubles  sore  oppressed, 
Throw  sunshine  gleams  into  some  shadowed  breast, 
Cause  smiles  to  glisten  in  the  tearful  eyes 
Like  rainbows  arching  through  the  April  skies. 
Oh,  do  some  good  ;  while  life  and  hope  remain    » 
Assuage  some  anguish,  soothe  corroding  pain, 
Stand  boldly  forth  for  all  that's  good  and  true, 
And  God  erelong  will  nobly  honor  you. 
Call  nothing  little  that  the  heart  can  give  ; 
By  deeds  like  these  our  truest  lives  we  live. 


DECORATION   HYMN. 

They  rest  from  the  conflict,  their  labor  is  ended, 
"Their  battles  are  fought  and  their  victories  gained  ; 

Their  spirits  heroic  to  God  have  ascended, 
Their  memory  is  left  us  with  honor  unstained. 


450  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Beneath  the  green  sod  their  bodies  are  sleeping, 
Above  them  in  beauty  the  dewy  grass  waves, 

While  comrades  this  da}'  are  sacred!}-  keeping, 
And  Brewing  with  flowers,  their  glorious  graves. 

We  know  that  our  flowers  will  wither  and  perish , 

Our  flags  too,  will  droop  in  the  still  summer  air ; 
But  deep  in  our  hearts  their  memory  we'll  cherish, 

With  love  that  the  passing  years  ne'er  will  impair. 

» 

To  us  is  the  weeping,  while  theirs  is  the  glory  ; 

From  danger  and  duty  they  ne'er  turned  aside  ; 
Heroic  their  deeds  and  immortal  their  story, — 

They  fought  for  their  county,  and  conquering,  died. 

No  longer  the}1  listen  the  tramp  of  the  legions 
That  steadily  marched  to  the  field  of  the  dead, 

From  East  and  from  West,  and  from  far  distant  regions, 
Resistless  in  numbers  and  firm  in  their  tread. 

Yes,  honor  and  glory  for  them  are  eternal, 

The  nation  they  ransomed  their  memory  will  keep  ; 

Fame's  flowers  immortal  will  bloom  ever  vernal 

O'er  the  graves  where  our  heroes  in  glory  now  sleep. 


TO  MY  GRAND-MOTHER. 

Though  bleak  and  chill  the  wintry  wind,  though  dark  the  day 

and  drear, 

Though  lifeless  'neath  her  icy  chains  the  fettered  earth  appear, 
Though  leafless  boughs  sway,  bent  and  torn,  before  the  furious 

gale, 

Yet  cold,  nor  snow,  nor  wintry  blast 'gainst  Nature  shall  prevail. 
She  is  waiting,  only  waiting,  till  the  spring  days  come  once  more, 
Only  clasping  close  her  treasures  all  the  brighter  to  restore. 

Soon  shall  the  sun's  glad  warmth  and  cheer  unloose  each  heavy 

chain, 
The  tempest   wild  have  spent  its  wrath,  soft  zephyrs  breathe 

again, 
With  verdure  clad,  with  strength  renewed,  the  flower  crowned 

earth  shall  rise, 

With  song  of  birds  and  rippling  streams  salute  the  smiling  skies. 
After  waiting,  calmly  waiting,  she  shall  rise  a  queen  once  more, — 
All  her  wealth  of  joy  and  beauty  o'er  our  happy  hearts  to  pour. 

Though  age  and  care  thy  form  have  bowed,  though  dark  thy  day 
and  drear, 


MAETHA  J.  HEY  WOOD.  4f>l 


Though  friends  of  youth  are  from  thee  torn,  earth's  joys  no  lon 
ger  cheer, 

Though  lonely,  weary  oftentimes,  though  strength  and  vigor  fail, 
Yet  age,  nor  pain,  nor  weariness  against  thee  shall  prevail. 
Only  waiting,  only  waiting,  till  release  from  earth  be  given, 
With  the  heart  secure  in  Jesus  how  we  long  for  rest  in  Heaven  ! 

But  soon  shall  dawn  a  brighter  da}',  all  clouds  be  overpast, 

Then  may  thy  spirit  upward  fly,  thy  soul  find  rest  at  last. 

The  loved  and  lost  be  found  again,  full  strength  for  weakness 

given, 

And  weariness  and  pain  forgot  in  perfect  bliss  in  Heaven. 
After  waiting,  meekly  waiting,  through  these  many  weary  days, 
With  the  sanctified  in  glory,  sing  eternally  God's  praise  ! 


CRADLE  SONG. 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  Cares  trouble  not  thy  breast ; 

Baby  must  sleep  ;  Naught  shall  disturb  thy  rest, — 
Now  when  the  daylight  dies,  Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

Closed  be  the  little  eyes  ; 
Rest  till  the  sun  arise,-  Lullaby,  lullaby, 

Sleep,  babv,  sleep.  tlBab^mustl  s,leeP  \ 

Mother  will  watch  and  pray 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  Danger  may  keep  away, 

Baby  must  sleep  ;  Until  the  dawn  of  day, — 

Peaceful  shall  rest  thy  head  ;  Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

Noiseless  shall  be  the  tread 

Round  our  dear  darling's  bed,—         Lullaby,  lullaby, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep.  Bab3"  must  sleeP  5 

Forms  that  we  cannot  see, 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  Loving  are  watching  thee  ; 

Baby  must  sleep,  Thus  may  it  ever  be  ! 

No  cause  for  anxious  fears ;  Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

Nor  yet  for  thee  the  .years 
When  life  must  have  its  tears,—        J«llaby,  lullaby, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep.  ,  Babv  muf  sleeP  5  , 

Groci  answers  from  the  skies 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  Mother's  fond  prayers  that  rise  ;. 

Bab}-  must  sleep  ;  Baby  must  close  his  eyes, — 

Baby  by  Heaven  blest !  Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 


ifttottja  3. 

Mrs.  Hey  wood,  a  sister  of  the  late  Samuel  Burnham,  and  the  youngest  of  the  family, 
is  a,  native  of  Kludge.  She  married  A.  B.  Heywood,  of  Lowell,  Mass.,  and  resided, 
in  that  city  several  years.  Their  home  is  in  Keene. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


REST. 

"And  there  the  weary  are  at  rest" — 
At  rest  upon  the  Saviour's  breast ; 
Safe  in  that  calm  and  peaceful  home, 
Where  sorrow  nevermore  can  come. 

"And  there  the  weary  are  at  rest" — 
The  soul  by  earthly  care  distressed 
No  more  shall  feel  an  anxious  fear, 
For  God  shall  wipe  away  each  tear. 

"And  there  the  weary  are  at  rest," — 
The  head  upon  His  bosom  pressed 
Shall  never  know  another  pain, 
Nor  sad,  distracting  thoughts  again. 

"And  there  the  weary  are  at  rest" — 
The  heart's  deep  longings,  unexpressed, 
Shall  there  be  more  than  satisfied, 
In  that  sweet  shelter  where  we  hide. 

"And  there  the  weary  are  at  rest" — 
The  broken  spirit,  here  oppressed, 
At  last  a  resting-place  has  found, 
Where  it  can  never  feel  a  wound. 

"And  there  the  weaiy  are  at  rest" — 
In  those  fair  mansions  of  the  blest, 
"Sorrow  and  sighing  flee  away," 
And  all  is  bright,  eternal  day. 


TRUST. 

Dear  Saviour,  on  thy  loving  breast, 

My  weary  head  I  lean  ; 
Although  with  guilt  and  fear  oppressed, 

Thy  blood  can  make  me  clean. 

Thus  resting,  in  thy  pitying  ear, 

I  pour  my  inmost  grief; 
Thou  wilt  not  chide  the  falling  tear, 

But  grant  me  sweet  relief. 

Though  man}'  a  hope  which  I  have  known, 

Lies  sadly  unfulfilled  ; 
Though  joys  once  bright  have  quickly  flown, 

1  take  what  God  has  willed, — 


MAETHA  J.  HEY  WOOD.  453 

Assured  m}'  Father  cannot  fail 

To  lead  His  child  in  love  ; 
O'er  seas  of  doubt  I  calml}'  sail, 

Nearing  my  home  above. 

If  thus  my  heart  can  ever  lay 

Its  heavj*  load  on  Thee, 
Though  clouds  of  sorrow  shroud  my  way, 

No  ill  can  come  to  me. 

Oh,  should  I  gain  that  heavenly  shore, 

Where  my  lost  darlings  dwell, 
I'll  praise  Him  then,  forevermore, 

Who  "doeth  all  things  well." 


ALICE. 

The  golden  sunlight  fades  away, 

The  day  glides  into  night ;  * 
The  stars  are  coming,  one  by  one, — 

I  hail  their  milder  light. 

The  light  is  fading  from  my  heart, — 

Scarce  e'en  a  twilight  ray 
Dawns  on  my  weaiy  soul  to-night 

To  soothe  my  grief  away. 

I  think  of  one  who  passed  from  earth, 

In  all  her  beauty  bright ; 
Our  only  star — whose  light  went  out 

One  year  ago  to-night. 

Sweet  little  Alice  !     Could  our  love 
Have  had  the  power  to  save, 

Our  dearest,  fondest  hopes  would  ne'er 
Lie  buried  in  that  grave. 

Yet  though  my  heart  be  desolate, 

This  joy  to  me  is  given ; 
To  know  my  darling  is  at  rest ; 

"  'Tis  well"  with  her  in  heaven. 

O  Father,  teach  thy  sorrowing  child, 
Through  tears,  thy  hand  to  see  ; 

For  thou  wilt  heal  the  broken  heart, 
That  trusts  alone  in  thee. 


4f)4  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

FALLING,  FALLING! 

The  rain  is  falling,  falling,          My  tears  are  falling,  falling, 
The  night  is  dark  and  drear,       My  grief  I  cannot  stay, 

Deep  unto  deep  is  calling,          My  heart  is  ever  calling 
Sad,  mournful  sounds  I  hear !     For  the  loved  one  far  away. 

The  rain  is  falling,  falling,  A  voice  is  calling,  calling, 

On  a  little  far-off  grave,  "O  mother!  look  above! 

Deep  unto  deep  still  calling —  Here  are  no  tear  drops  falling, 

I  sink  beneath  the  wave.  Come  to  my  home  of  love !" 


PROVERB  POP:M. 

"Miserf  loves  company." 

A  fox,  while  skipping  o'er  hill  and  dale 
Was  caught  in  a  trap  and  lost  his  tail ; 
And  thus  of  his  pride  and  glory  bereft, 
He  said,  "I  have  only  one  solace  left. 

I  cannot  endure  the  taunts  and  jeers, 
I  now  shall  receive  from  all  my  peers  ; 
But  if  I  can  make  them  follow  suit, 
They  will  have  no  cause  to  laugh  and  hoot. 

The  ver}'  first  day  of  pleasant  weather, 
I'll  call  the  foxes  all  together, 
And  see  if  my  plan  will  not  avail 
To  make  each  fox  cut  off  his  tail." 

So  he  issued  a  loud  and  earnest  call — 
''Come  hither,  3-6  foxes,  great  and  small ; 
I've  a  dainty  feast  prepared  for  you, 
And  a  tale  to  tell,  both  strange  and  new." 

And  far  and  near  was  the  summons  heard, 
As  the  forests  rang  with  the  welcome  word  ; 
And  the  foxes  came  in  eager  haste, 
Their  neighbor's  rich  repast  to  taste. 

Then  he  without  the  tail  arose, 
And  said,  "dear  friends,  you  see,  I  suppose, 
That  I've  lost  my  tail  since  last  we  met, 
And  haven't  obtained  another  as  yet. 

I  see  your  faces  are  full  of  glee, 
But  before  you  laugh,  just  listen  to  me  ; 
Be  patient,  and  I  will  make  it  plain, 
That  what  seemed  a  loss  is  really  a  gain. 


MARTHA  J.  HEYWOOD.  455 

And  first  I'm  sure  no  fox  will  deny, 
That  in  looks  I  now  all  others  outvie  ; 
The  tail  of  which  once  I  was  foolishly  vain, 
I  remember  to-day  with  sorrow  and  pain. 

Just  look  at  me  now,  my  figure  behold, 
And  sa}',  was  I  ever  so  handsome  of  old  ? 
And  as  for  convenience,  you  never  will  know, 
Till  deprived  of  3'our  tails,  how  fast  you  can  go. 

The  tail  is  a  heavy  burden  to  bear, 

A  troublesome  weight  and  a  useless  care  ; 

O,  take  my  advice  and  cut  off  your  tails, 

And  swifter  than  ever  you'll  roam  through  the  vales." 

While  thus  he  selfishly  pleaded  his  case, 
Another  fox  rose  with  a  very  wise  face, 
And  said,  "Neighbor  fox,  allow  me  to  speak ; 
Your  words  are  in  vain,  your  logic  is  weak. 

'Tis  plain  to  be  seen,  you' re  in  a  sad  plight, 
And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you  look  like  a  fright; 
'Tis  useless  to  try  your  friends  to  deceive, 
For  none  of  your  arguments  do  we  believe. 

O,  had  you  been  honest,  faithful  and  true, 
Each  one  of  your  friends  would  now  pity  you  ; 
But  they  who  resort  to  deception  and  sin, 
Will  certainly  find  they've  been  taken  in. 

I'm  sure  all  these  foxes  assembled  to-day 
Will  fully  agree  with  what  I  now  say ; 
You'd  better  depart  for  regions  unknown, 
And  we'll  eat  up  }rour  dainties  after  you're  gone." 

The  fox  heard  the  words  and  looked  all  around 

To  see  if  e'en  now  one  friend  might  be  found  ; 

But  not  one  took  his  part,  and  each  face  seemed  to  say, 

"The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  just  run  away." 

So  fearful  was  he  lest  his  neighbors  give  chase, 
Away  fled  the  fox  at  a  very  swift  pace ; 
And  oft  as  he. wandered  he  uttered  this  wail, 
"Alas  !  I've  no  home,  and  no  friends,  and  no  tail !" 

From  this  simple  tale  the  lesson  we  learn, 
Our  dear  "boys  and  girls"  will  not  fail  to  discern ; 
'Tis  better  in  patience  our  sorrows  to  bear, 
Than  to  strive  to  make  others  our  miseries  share. 


456  POETS  OF  NE  W  HAMPSHIRE. 


Joijn 


Kev.  John  W.  Adams,  a  son  of  John  andJMary  (Taggart)  Adams  and  descendant 
of  Henrv  Adams,  ancestor  of  the  Presidents,  was  born  May  23,  1832.  He  joined 
the  N.  Ii.  Conf.  M.  E.  Church  in  1858.  His  pastorates  have  bean  Kye,  Perry,  So. 
Newmarket,  No.  Salem,  E.  Canaan,  Winchester,  Gt.  Falls  —  High  b't.,  TUtoa  and 
Newport.  In  1863-4-5—  he  was  Chaplain  of  the  Second  N.  H.  Kegst  Vols.  In  1S77-S  '.» 
and  80  he  was  Presiding  Elder  of  Concord  Pistrlct.  For  several  years  past  he  lias 
been  president  of  the  trustees  of  the  Conference  Seminary  and  Female  College  at 
Tilton. 


THE  BIBLE. 

Precious  Bible  !     Wisdom's  shrine  ! 
Gift  of  heaven  !     Book  divine  ! 
Rescuing  from  error's  night, 
Life  immortal, — heavenly  light ! 

Key  to  nature's  mystic  page, 
Supplement  to  reason  sage, 
Traced  by  hands  of  old  inspired, 
Truth,  the  wisest  have  admired. 

Most  authentic  history, 

Record  of  autiquit}*, 

Herald  of  the  coming  day. 

When  the  "earth  shall  pass  away." 

Book  revealing  love  divine, 
Breathing  hope  in  every  line, 
Teaching  how  through  Jesus'  blood, 
Sinners,  cleansed,  may  rise  to  God. 

This  is  Heaven's  only  creed, — 
Plain,  that  "he  who  runs  may  read  ;" 
Aged  pilgrim's  comfort,  guide  ; 
Youth  may  in  its  truths  confide. 

Holy  Ghost,  with  ra}Ts  divine, 
On  this  precious  volume  shine  ; 
And  in  searching  may  we  find 
Treasures,  lasting  as  the  mind. 


OUR  BABY. 

Though  babies  count  up  by  the  million, 
And  all  of  them  fit  for  the  "show ;" 

Yet  ours. beats  the  sum  total  billion, 
Because  she's  our  bab}',  you  know. 


GEOEGE  W.  OSGOOD.  457 

Her  ringlets  !  O,  their  like  never  can  be  ; 

They  all  of  them  curl  just  so  : 
You  ought  not  to  smile  at  my  fancy, 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

Her  complexion  out-rivals  the  fairest ; 

The  cheeks  have  an  angelic  glow  ; 
The  dimples  that  fleck  them,  the  rarest, 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

Transcendant  expression  and  lustre, 

And  clear  as  the  waters  that  flow 
Are  the  63*68  with  which  heaven  hath  blessed  her, 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

Her  lips  are  like  lilacs  in  blossom, 

And  the  nectar  with  which  they  o'erflow 

Is  sweeter  than  hive-stores  in  autumn, 
Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

Her  laughter  is  seraph-like  music 

Wafted  through  the  dear  home  here  below  ; 

And  her  sayings  more  sage  than  the  Delphic, 
Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

She's  a  darling,  a  picture,  a  pet, 

A  cherub  from  the  crown  to  the  toe : 
She  has  ne'er  found  her  equal  as  yet, 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 


(George 


G.  W.  Osgood  was  born  in  this  State,  in  1833.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  and  he 
follows  the  same  vocation.  He  was  engaged  for  some  time  as  a  watchman  in 
Lawrence,  Mass.,  and  in  1856,  went  to  Boston,  where  he  entered  a  drug  store,  and 
remained  a  year.  He  then  went  west,  designing  to  engage  in  farming,  but  not  lik 
ing  the  country,  returned  the  following  spring.  In  1861  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in 
the  6th  X.  H.  Volunteers,  and  was  afterwards  promoted  to  the  office  of  lieutenant. 
He  was  in  various  engagements,  was  wounded  in  the  second  battle  of  Bull  Run, 
and  subsequently  discharged.  After  regaining  his  health  he  purchased  a  farm  in 
Nelson,  where  he  now  resides. 


WELCOME  TO     SPRING. 

Sweet  spring  has  come  !  the  bluebird's  joyous  note 
He  whistles  oft  from  limb  of  leafless  tree  ; 

The  doves  have  built  their  nest  within  the  cote, 
And  warm  the  south  wind  blows  across  the  lea. 

Stern  winter  long  his  chilly  sceptre  swa}-ed, 
And  nature  helpless  bound  with  icy  chain, 


458  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

With  snow  clad  hill  and  vale  and  sheltered  glade, 
Till  earth  and  man  were  weary  of  his  reign. 

But  spring's  warm  breath  atones  for  winter's  cold  ; 

Nature  revives,  our  drooping  hearts  to  cheer ; 
Bids  the  grim  tyrant,  feeble  grown  and  old, 

With  train  of  snow  and  frost,  to  disappear 

The  robin  from  his  long  and  forced  sojourn 

In  southern  climes,  flies  north  with  pinion  free, 

And  none  more  glad  to  welcome  spring's  return 
And  eager  seek  his  whilom  haunts  than  he. 

That  sombre  vestured  prince  of  rogues,  the  crow, 
Who  claims  the  right  the  farmer's  corn  to  share, 

Long  since  his  northward  flight  began,  and  lo ! 
His  call  is  heard  upon  the  morning  air. 

The  warm  and  mellow  air  the  frog  provokes 
To  music,  and  he  pipes  his  rasping  strain, 

While,  echoing  the  madrigal  he  croaks, 
Thousands  are  heard  in  chorus  and  refrain. 

The  hill-side  pastures,  sere  and  brown  and  bare, 
Scant  sustenance  for  herd  or  flock  afford, 

But  underneath  the  withered  herbage  there 

The  fresh  young  grass  is  springing  thro'  the  sward. 

Thrice  welcome  beauteous  spring,  emblem  of  youthful  bloom, 
Fair  pledge  of  nature's  life,  and  seed-time  of  the  year ; 

Put  on  thy  queenly  robes,  full  sway  assume, 
Nor  haste  to  bring  the  burning  summer  here. 


THE  LOVED  AND  THE  LOST. 

Where  are  the  friends  we  prized  of  yore? 

Their  memory  haunts  us  like  a  dream, 
There's  only  left  a  handful  more — 

Fast  passing  down  life's  shadowy  stream. 
The  hearts  our  youthful  pleasures  shared 

No  more  shall  throb  within  their  breast, : 
The  hands,  that  kindly  for  us  cared, 

Are  folded  in  their  final  rest. 
Did  fortune  favors  on  us  pour? 

They  proved  their  friendship  ever  true  ; 
We  trusted  them  in  sorrow's  hour, 

For  counsel  and  for  comfort  too. 
But  they  have  left  us  sad  and  lone 


DA  VID  H.  HILL.  459 


To  pass  the  remnant  of  our  race  ; 
Scarcely  can  other  friends  atone. 

Their  loss,  or  wholly  fill  their  place. 
But  their  dear  memor}T  lingers  still 

To  cheer  us  in  life's  rugged  way  ; 
Though  other  forms  their  places  fill, 

We  deem  them  near  us  day  by  day, 
Death  breaks  the  ties  that  bind  us  here, 

And  they  must  e'er  be  severed  thus  ; 
With  lost  friends  we  shall  soon  appear, 

But  never  they'll  return  to  us. 
Though  earthly  friendship  fade  and  fail, 

May  Jesus  prove  our  steadfast  friend  ; 
And  hope  secure  within  the  vail 

Sustain  and  cheer  till  life  shall  end. 


David  H.  Hill  was  born  in  North  Berwick,  Maine,  December  12,  1833,  and  re 
moved  with  his  lather's  family  to  Sandwich  in  1837,  where  he  has  since  remained, 
except  when  absent  in  teaching,  or  engaged  in  academical  and  professional  studies. 
He  read  law  in  the  office  of  Hon.  Samuel  M.  Wheeler  and  Hon.  Joshua  G.  Hall  at 
Dover,  and  at  the  Harvard  Law  School,  in  the  senior  class,  but  did  not  graduate 
there.  He  has  been  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  Sandwich  for 
about  seventeen  years  past,  giving  little  time  to  other  pursuits.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  State  Legislature  in  1870  and  1871,  and  was  appointed  to  the  office  of  Judge 
of  Probate  for  Can-oil  County  in  1880,  which  position  he  still  holds. 


CHOCORUA. 

Sing  me  a  song,  a  pleasing  song,  of  the  wild  granite  hills  ; 
Some  weird   old  legend  of  the  north,  whose  mystic  romance 

thrills 

Both  heart  and  brain,  at  thought  of  deeds  that  long  ago  had  birth 
Among  those  ancient  hills  that  stand  like  giant  kings  of  earth. 

Sing  of  the  buried  treasures  in  the  eastern  desert  caves ; 

The  wild  bird's  mournful  burden,   as  he  screams  o'er  Indian 

waves ; 

The  notes  of  desolation  chant,  heard  in  the  desert  land, 
Where  in  a  gloomy  silence  still  the  mouldering  temples  stand. 

'Tis  thine  to  trace  the  shadowy  realms  where  holiest  truths  are 

wrought, 

And  summon  wild  imaginings  from  the  free  world  of  thought : 
'Tis  thine  to  trace  the  welcome  light,  bursting  through  desert 

gloom, 
And  hear  the  singing  angels  chant,  'mid  silence  of  the  tomb  ; — 


460  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

By  outspread  tranquil  waters,  'neath  the  summer  skies  that  sleep, 
In  the  lone  glens  ancUsolemn  groves,  where  whispering  breezes 

creep, 

Deep  in  the  ancient  forest  dark,  'mid  awful  forms  and  wild, 
Where  Nature  in  a  thousand  shapes  speaks  to  her  chosen  child  ; — 

Where  far  o'er  mighty  ocean's  waste  the  traveller  can  descry 
Dark  incense  from  the  burning  hills  curl  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
Where  war  hounds  and  the  vulture  trace  the  conquering  army's 

tread, 
And  ghostly  catacombs  appear,  homes  of  the  ancient  dead. 

Where'er  the  dews  of  genius  fall,  go  to  that  pleasant  clime, 
And  mark  the  footprints — listen  to  the  voices  of  old  Time, 
And  sing  of  the  imperial  hills,  thy  romance  summon  forth, 
And  sing  some  mystic  song  of  old,  some  legend  of  the  North. 

Along  the  shores  of  the  wild  lakes, 
Among  the  northern  hills  that  sleep, 
The  wild  bird's  music  scarcely  breaks 
The  silence  that  the  waters  keep, 
And  twilight  shadows  gentty  creep 
Along  the  wild  indented  shore, 
And  over  all  the  watery  floor 
A  mirrored  surface  softly  shines. 
In  its  calm  depth,  the  silent  pines 
And  the  grim  mountains  seem  to  stand 
Like  giant  watchers  o'er  the  land. 

Scarcely  two  centuries  are  gone, 
Since  o'er  that  pleasant  mountain  land, 
Where  wild  Chocorua's  tower  of  stone 
Seems  like  an  ancient  king  to  stand  ; 
The  warriors  of  another  race 
Like  shadows  roamed  o'er  lake  and  hill ; 
And  now,  as  ancient  legend  says, 
Their  conscious  spirits  roam  there  still, 
Guarding  the  lonety  burial  place 
Where  sleep  the  warriors  of  their  race. 

'Tis  said  that  ancient  legends  show 
In  the  old  ages  long  ago, 
During  Charles  Stuart's  reign  of  blood, 
From  seaside  town  oft  wandered  forth 
'Mong  the  wild  forests  of  the  north, 
Far  in  New  Hampshire's  wildest  wood, 
Where  rocky  hills  their  vigils  keep, 


DA  VID  II.  HILL. 


And  lakes  round  frowning  mountains  sleep, 
Wild  spirits  of  bold  Cromwell's  band, 
Who  left  their  homes  and  native  land 
To  seek  some  wilder,  lonelier  home 
Where  Stuart's  power  might  never  come. 

By  Burton's  lake,  whose  waters  lie 
In  tranquil  sleep,  where  cloud  and  sky 
And  mount  and  fiery  sunset-gleam, 
In  depth  of  waveless  waters,  seem 
Like  visions  wild  in  fleeting  dream, 
Lived  in  that  old  historic  day 
The  prophet  chief,  Chocorua. 

Declining  day's  last  sunlight  fell 
O'er  that  wild  region  of  the  north  ; 
Westward,  deep  gorge  and  mighty  dell, 
Whence  mountain  rivers  issue  forth, 
In  the  increasing  darkness  slept. 
The  panther  started  from  his  lair ; 
The  wolf  from  out  his  cavern  crept ; 
'Mong  tangled  hemlocks  lay  the  bear, 
Gorging  himself  in  darkness  there. 

On  such  an  eve  Chocorua  stood 
On  that  lone  height,  "The  Prophet's  Home  ;" 
Beneath  him  lay  the  unbounded  wood, 
Deep  gorge,  where  tumbling  torrents  foam. 
Towering  aloft  great  Minden  rose, 
The  dark  browed  monarch  of  the  west, 
Stately  and  grand,  in  stern  repose 
Lifting  to  heaven  his  wooded  crest. 

On  this  wild  scene  the  prophet  gazed 

While  daylight  deepened  into  night ; 

When,  on  the  Indian's  vision,  blazed, 

Beside  the  eastern  lake,  a  light ; 

A  single  camp  fire  shone  afar 

Through  the  dark  pines  like  evening's  star, 

Lighting  the  sacred  burial  place 

Where  slept  the  heroes  of  their  race. 

He  knew  it  was  no  meteor  lamp, 

As  ofttimes  flashes  on  the  eye 

Amid  the  exhalations  damp, 

Where  the  low,  misty  moorlands  lie  ; 

Strangers  e'en  now  from  eastern  waves 

Were  feasting  by  his  fathers'  graves, 


4{-,-2  POETS  OF  NE W  HAMPSHIR E. 

Who  came  from  regions  far  away, 
To  roam  o'er  sacred  lands  at  will, 
By  mountain,  forest^  lake  and  hill, 
Nor  recked  where  sleeping  warriors  lav. 

'Twas  after  that  historic  da}r 
When  tidings  o'er  the  sea  were  blown 
That  Cromwell's  power  was  passed  away, 
And  Stuart  sat  on  England's  throne, — 
That  thronging  o'er  the  Atlantic  tide 
Came  fugitive  and  regicide 
From  Albion's  fairy  isle,  in  quest 
Of  safety  in  the  distant  west. 

But  messengers  of  kingly  wrath, 

In  sunless  forests  far  awa}', 

Traced  through  dark  wilds  the  wanderer's  path, 

Where  streams  down  lonesome  valleys  play  ; 

Hunted  through  gloomy  waste  and  wild, 

Driven  through  noisome  fens  to  roam 

With  nature  and  her  savage  child, 

The  hunted  outcast  found  his  home  ; 

In  lonely  vales  his  camp  fires  burned, 

Then  to  remoter  wilds  he  turned, 

To  granite  mountains,  white  and  cold, 

Where  ancient  Indian  legends  told 

Once  dwelt  the  Prophet  Kings  of  old. 

Leader  of  that  Cromwellian  band, 
Cornelius  Campbell  led  them  forth, 
Over  the  vast,  untrodden  land, 
O'er*  mountain,  vale,  and  barren  sand, 
Back  to  the  wild,  enchanted  north, 
Where  Burton's  ancient  mountains  rise, 
Where  her  pure,  azure  lakelet  lies, 
And  weird  Chocorua  meets  the  skies. 

O'er  river,  plain  and  forest  wide, 
With  that  bold  leader  came  his  bride  ; 
She  came,  capricious  Nature's  child, 
A  priestess,  to  that  lonely  wild  ; 
As  watch-fires  on  some  lonely  height 
Light  the  dark  woods  like  sunset's  smile, 
As  star  on  "Ethiop's  brow  of  night" 
Gilds  the  dark  waters  of  the  Nile, 
So  that  3'oung  fairy  of  the  woods 
Gladdened  those  savage  solitudes. 


DAVID  II.  HILL.  4G3 


'Twas  on  November's  waning  day, 
The  sun  in  southern  skies  hung  low, 
Pale  light  on  dying  woodlands  lay, 
That  northward  stretched  for  leagues  away, 
To  glittering  hills  in  wastes  of  snow. 

By  Burton's  lake  "the  prophet  stood" 
While  evening  shadows  gently  fell 
O'er  fading  lake  and  darkening  wood  ; 
When  from  a  gloomy  mountain  dell 
Came  the  wild  panther's  savage  yell, 
That  strange,  wild,  piercing,  awful  cry 
Rose  upward  to  the  vaulted  sky, 
Fearful  as  the  near  thunder's  jar, 
Then  died  in  mountain  glens  afar. 

Nearer,  again,  that  awful  cry 

Froze  the  quick  blood  with  curdling  chills  ; 

A  hundred  echoes  made  reply, 

Pealing  along  the  northern  hills. 

From  out  the  dusk  a  stranger  came, 
The  monster  met  him  in  his  path. 
With  quivering  limb  and  eyes  of  flame, 
Writhing  in  wild  majestic  wrath  : 
With  upraised  arm  the  stranger  spoke, 
In  flash  of  fire  and  wreath  of  smoke, 
He  spoke  as  the  Great  Spirit  speaks 
In  clouds  beyond  the  mountain  peaks, 
When  jagged,  arrowy  lightnings  fly 
Through  dark  pavilions  of  the  sky, 
And  shuddering  mountains  make  reply. 

Soon  ebbed  the  monster's  life  away, 
And  dead  at  Campbell's  feet  he  lay. 
Amazed  the  prophet  stood,  and  saw 
The  thrilling  scene  with  solemn  awe. 
And  oft  in  mountain  solitudes, 
Wandering  beneath  the  midnight  sky, 
Met  these  stern  tenants  of  the  woods 
As  uneventful  years  rolled  by. 

But  sorrow,  anger,  wrath  and  gloom, 
Were  "greeding  in  the  days  to  come  ;" 
When  from  his  kindred,  friends,  and  home 
The  prophet  turned,  alone  to  roam 
O'er  howling  wastes,  and  wandered  forth  • 
Deep  in  the  desolate,  wild  north, 


4  ( '>  1  POE  TS  OF  NEW  H AMPS  HIE  E. 


To  visit  tribes,  remoter  far, 

In  realms  beneath  the  northern  star. 

His  son,  the  child  of  many  a  prayer, 
His  twilight  star,  his  people's  pride, 
Trusted  to  Campbell's  guardian  care, 
Like  a  frail  floweret  drooped  and  died. 

With  ancient  kings  his  grave  was  made, 
And  in  the  sombre  hemlock  shade, 
To  dreamless  sleep  the  bo}'  was  laid. 
From  mound  where  ancient  Sagamore 
Sleeps  on  the  lonehr,  peaceful  shore, 
A  midnight  wail  rose  to  the  sky  ; 
Only  bleak  nature  made  reply  ; 
Its  burden  all  the  forest  stirred  ; 

Such  bitter,  grieving,  anguished  cry 
As  once  from  mourning  Rama  heard, 
As  one  whose  farewell  glance  is  cast 
To  groves  where  sleep  the  kindred  dead, 
Turning  from  tender  memories  past 
And  sacred  joj's,  forever  fled, 
Invokes  the  God  of  heaven  and  earth 
To  give  some  new  creation  birth, 
Some  consecration,  that  may  rise 
From  the  crushed  heart  that  bleeding  lies. 

So  from  that  lowly,  sacred  tomb, 

The  prophet  turned  back  to  the  gloom. 

And  cold,  strange  mysteiy  of  night. 

The  heavens,  in  starry  silence  bright, 

"Over  the  empty  spaces"  hung ; 

Nor  breath  of  heaven,  nor  human  tongue, 

Nor  aught  the  solemn  silence  stirred 

Save  midnight  wail  of  forest  bird, 

Or  lordly  river,  gliding  slow, 

Through  ancient  woods  with  peaceful  flow. 

Nor  passion  wilder  or  more  fell, 
Within  the  human  breast  e'er  burned  ; 
Nor  lit  with  blacker  fires  of  hell, 
Than  in  that  breast  for  vengeance  yearned  : 
As  on  his  wild,  bewildered  brain, 
Gradual  the  awful  thought  had  birth, 
By  Campbell's  hand  his  boy  was  slain, 
His  race  was  stricken  from  the  earth. 


DAVID  H.  HILL. 


'Twas  midnight's  hour  of  hoi}7  rest ; 
He  saw  the  stars  sink  down  the  sky 
Be}*ond  the  mountains  of  the  west, 
And  cold,  bright  meteors  gliding  03*, 
And  ghostly  mountains  towering  high  ; 
The  glorious  pageant  of  the  hour 
Gave  his  wild  brain  intenser  power. 

Where  Burton's  ghostly  mountain  throws 
His  gloomy  shade  at  day's  calm  close, 
A  streamlet  plays  with  gentle  moan 
Down  from  Chocorua's  heart  of  stone, 
And  weird  shapes,  with  avenging  frown, 
From  dizzy  mountain  heights  look  down, 
And  where  that  gentle  streamlet  plays, 
Among  wild  rocky  solitudes, 
'Mid  sylvan  scenes,  in  .other  days, 
Cornelius  Campbell's  cottage  stood. 

His  bride — the  beautiful  and  young, 
(Like  some  rich  gem  of  purest  ray, 
Idl}7  by  jewelled  fingers  flung 
To  gloomy  ocean  depths  away,) 
Was  the  bright  star,  the  constant  light, 
That  beamed  on  that  wild  desert  land  ; 
None  walked  the  earth  in  purer  white, 
None  wielded  power  with  gentler  hand. 

O'er  his  wild  empire  of  the  north 

Cornelius  Campbell  wandered  forth. 

At  eve  of  that  eventful  da}', 

His  wife  and  child  all  ghastly  lay 

In  the  long,  dread,  appalling,  deep 

Silence  of  the  eternal  sleep. 

He  knew  the  fierce  avenger's  brand  ; 

He  knew  what  dread  destroyer's  hand 

Had  placed  Death's  seal  on  Beauty's  brow. 

Only  grim  vengeance  nerved  him  now. 

Saw  ye  Chocorua's  cold,  gray  height 
Radiant  in  gold  at  set  of  sun  ? 
Knew  ye,  at  morn's  returning  light, 
What  deeds  of  darkness  had  been  done 
Beneath  the  holy  stars  of  night  ? 

The  sun  adown  the  golden  west 
O'er  Passaconway's  dome  was  set ; 


4G6  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

"When  on  Chocorua's  cold,  sharp  crest 

The  stern,  avenging  warriors  met. 

The  prophet  spoke  :     "We  meet  at  last ; 

And  yet,  for  one,  no  morn  shall  rise  ; 
Then  let  his  farewell  glance  be  cast 
Up  to  the  solemn,  stany  skies, 
For  wrongs  that  may  not  be  forgiven 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  up  to  Heaven." 

With  hand  uplifted  to  the  sky 

Cornelius  Campbell  made  reply  : 

"Speak  you  of  wrongs  yet  un forgiven? 

Wrongs  that  cry  up  from  earth  to  Heaven  ? 

By  Him  who  kindled  the  great  sun 

I  swear,  no  wrong  by  me  was  done, 

But  crimes  my  lips  forbear  to  tell, 

Such  as  insatiate  fiends  of  hell 

Might  plot,  in  your  wild  brain  were  planned, 

And  wrought  by  your  twice  murdering  hand. 

We  meet,  in  deadliest  hate,  alone 

On  this  bleak  mount,  this  tower  of  stone, 

In  the  cold  silence  of  the  sky  ; 

Now  witness,  Heaven's  avenging  e}re. 

I'll  hurl  you  from  this  mountain's  brow 

Down  to  that  yawning  gulf  below, 

Where  only  bird  or  beast  of  prey 

Shall  bear  your  whitened  bones  away." 

Chocorua  spoke  :  "Where  in  the  deep, 
Wild  north,  earth's  ancient  mountains  rise, 
Where  bright  'Siogee's  waters  sleep, 
And  under  yet  remoter  skies, 
.  Our  warriors  roamed  o'er  all  the  land  ; 

On  this  great  mount  whereon  we  stand 
Have  prophets  kings  and  heroes  stood, 
And  gazed  on  earth's  vast  solitude. 
No  fitter  place  beneath  the  sk}r 
Than  this  wild  home  in  upper  air, 
Hallowed  by  many  a  prophet's  prayer, 
To  meet  dire  vengeance,  or  to  die." 

One  moment  of  Hate's  deadliest  strife. 

Like  tigers  grappling,  life  for  life, 

And  the  last  prophet  of  his  land 

Lay  crushed  beneath  his  conqueror's  hand. 

He  knew  the  fatal  grasp  ;  his  last, 


DAVID  H.  HILL.  467 


Despairing  glance  to  heaven  was  cast, 
As  if  to  see  with  dying  eyes 
The  gleaming  lakes  of  Paradise. 

The  victor  dragged  him  to  the  brow 

Of  the  dread  mount  whereon  they  stood  ; 

Pointing  to  awful  depths  below, 

He  spoke  :  "Deep  in  yon  gloomy  wood 

The  grey  wolf  hungers  for  your  blood  ; 

And  grim  death  waits — Now,  murderer,  go." 

Down  to  a  yawning,  sunless  vale, 
O'er  frowning  battlements,  he  fell. 
Hang  from  his  lips  a  wild,  death  wail, 
And  barren  hills  gave  back  his  knell. 
A  fiery  star,  a  meteor  bright, 
Shining  athwart  the  sombre  sky, 
Hung  on  the  orient  brow  of  night. 
Each  star  looked  down  with  solemn  eye  ; 
Round  Whiteface,  baleful  meteors  swung  ; 
Minden's  dark  brow  was  bathed  in  light, 
A  death  song  on  the  winds  was  sung, 
Ne'er  heard  till  that  portentous  night. 
Pale  lights  danced  over  lake  and  wood, 
The  chainless  Saco  blushed  in  blood, 
And  pitying  angels,  hovering  nigh, 
Walked  the  cold  heavens  with  mourning  eye. 


SQUAM  LAKE. 

A  peaceful  lake,  by  frowning  woods  o'erhung, 
Sleeps  like  bright  waters  among  Alpine  hills  ; 
No  voice  is  heard,  nor  lisp  of  human  tongue, 
Nor  sound,  save  gentle  moan  of  purling  rills  ; 
'Tis  far  away  beyond  the  purple  mountains, 
Beyond  the  sunset  clouds  of  golden  hue  ; 
Far  in  the  west,  among  the  crystal  fountains 
That  gush  from  earth  to  smile  'neath  skies  of  blue. 
When  sinks  the  sun  o'er  wooded  hills  to  rest, 
While  golden  radiance  of  the  burning  west 
Fades  o'er  the  billows  with  the  fading  day ; 
When  midnight  lamps  o'er  moon-bright  waters  playT 
And  crimson  clouds,  tinted  with  fiery  hue, 
Look  from  the  waveless  depths  to  depths  of  blue  ; 
When  myriad  stars  burn  in  the  silent  lake, 
While  flashing  waters  round  dark  islands  break; 


468  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  gleaming  wavelets  at  the  set  of  sun 
Bask  in  his  glories  when  his  course  is  run  ; — 
As  breaks  the  sweet,  wild  vision  on  the  eye, 
We  dream — and  roam  in  classic  Italy. 


Eane. 

eacon  Eze 

ill  Home  1 

fectly  illust 

er  of  Mrs.  I 

poems  appear  upon  earlier  pages  of  this  volume.     She  was  deaf,  and  hence  the 
poem  "The  Deaf  Girl's  Thought  of  Music"  has  touching  pathos. 


Mary  B.  Lane,  second  daughter  of  the  late  Beacon  Ezekiel  and  Mrs.  Mary  K. 
Lane  of  Candia,  was  born  at  the  old  Maple  Hill  Home  in  Candia,  Dec.  28,  1833. 
She  deceased  there  Oct.  28, 1879.  Her  verse  perfectly  illustrates  the  exalted  tenor 
of  her  character  and  life.  Miss  Lane  was  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Harriet  N.  Eaton,  whose 


THE  DEAF  GIRL'S  THOUGHT  OF  MUSIC. 

0  tell  me  what  is  music  like  ? 
What  bright  form  that  I  see 

Resembles  most  that  wondrous  thing 
Ne'er  yet  revealed  to  me  ? 

They  say  the  angels  long  ago 

Sang  at  Creation's  birth, 
And  ever  since  heaven-born  strains 

Have  floated  o'er  the  earth. 

And  such  is  music's  origin, 

But  its  delicious  spell 
Has  never  roused  my  slumb'ring  ear, 

Or  made  my  pulses  thrill. 

1  hear  no  answ'ring  gush  of  sound 
When  o'er  the  tuneful  keys, 

The  skilful  fingers  lightly  sweep, 
Waking  sweet  melodies. 

The  mighty  organ's  swelling  notes, 

The  anthem's  peal  sublime, 
That  bears  the  kindling  spirit  up 
.  Beyond  the  bounds  of  time, — 

The  simple  lay,  the  mother  sings 

Above  her  infant's  rest, 
The  strains  that  soothe  the  couch  of  pain, 

Or  calm  the  suffering  breast, — 

The  merry  song  that's  carolled  by 

Glad  lips  from  sorrow  free, 
And  the  low,  mournful  dirge, — are  all 

Mysterious  to  me. 


MART  BLAKE  LANE.  469 

They  tell  me  Nature's  realm  is  full 

Of  voices,  grand  and  sweet, 
That  sing  together  evermore 

In  harmonj7  complete ; 

But  not  for  me,  the  music  wild 
"Of  bird  and  murm'ring  bee, 
Or  the  unending  symphony 
Of  the  blue,  restless  sea. 

Yet,  though  my  ear  can  never  list 

To  melody  of  earth, 
I  know  that  it  shall  be  unsealed 

At  my  celestial  birth. 

And  O,  what  rapture  shall  be  mine 

When  that  new  sense  is  given  ! 
How  blissful,  even  now,  to  think, 

That  I  shall  hear  in  heaven  ! 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  LIVING. 

Is  this  the  realm  of  life  ? 

This  land  where  death  its  dismal  shadow  flings 
O'er  all  we  love?  waging  incessant  strife 

With  earth's  most  precious  things  ? — 

And  Summer's  frailest  flower, 
That  withers  ere  the  glowing  noon  is  past, 
Is  life's  best  emblem  ; — youth  and  fame  and  power 

Like  blossoms  fade  at  last. 

The  spoiler's  chilling  breath 
Falls  on  the  good  and  fair,  and  they  decay ; 
Nought  is  undying  but  tlry  rule,  oh  death ! 

The  wide  world  owns  thy  sway. 

Life  counts  its  children  here 
B}'  millions  ;  the  pale  and  shadowy  bands 
That  people  thy  dominions  vast  and  drear 

Are  countless  as  the  sands. 

Earth's  soil  is  strewn  with  graves ; 
Myriads  lie  in  dreamless  slumber  calm  ; 
Above  myriads  more,  the  ocean  waves 

Lift  up  their  dirge-like  psalm. 


470  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Still,  as  the  hours  glide  on, 
The  shrouded  form  and  solemn  funeral  knell 
And  broken  households  whence  the  light  has  flown 

Of  death's  new  conquests  tell. 

Life's  only  true  domain 

Lies  pure  and  bright  beyond  the  shades  of  time ; 
No  breath  of  sorrow,  no  defiling  stain 

Rests  on  that  sinless  clime  ! 

Its  joy-illumined  strand 
By  earthly  mists  is  veiled  from  mortal  sight, 
But  seers  of  olden  time  in  vision  grand 

Caught  glimpses  of  its  light. 

The  city  of  our  God  ! 

Whose  gates  of  pearl  death  enters  never  more, 
Whose  golden  street  by  angel  steps  are  trod, 

Adorns  that  blissful  shore. 

Through  vallej^s  ever  fair 
The  living  waters,  gently  murmuring,  flow, 
And  trees  of  life,  in  that  celestial  air, 

With  fruits  immortal  glow. 

And  the}r  who  passed  awa}*, 
The  loved  ones  that  we  missed  with  man}-  tears, 
In  that  sweet  home  that  knows  no  sad  decay, 

Dwell  through  eternal  }-ears  ! 


g  ©ate  l&ent. 


Col.  Kent  was  born  in  Lancaster,  Feb.  7, 1834.  He  graduated  at  Norwich  (Mili 
tary)  University,  in  1854.  He  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1858,  and 
from  that  year"  till  1870  he  was  owner  and  editor  of  the  Coos  Republican.  Sinew 
then  he  has  been  engaged,  outside  his  office  business,  in  banking,  manufacturing 
and  farming.  He  was  Assistant  Adjutant  General  of  the  State  on  the  breaking 
out  of  the  rebellion,  and  assisted  in  recruiting  and  organizing  early  reirimuntt;. 
He  was  subsequently  Colonel  of  the  17th  Volunteer  Infantry.  Since  is~i'>  lie  has  been 
considerably  in  public  life,  as  clerk  and  member  of  the  House,  Bank  Commissioner, 
Commissioner  to  adjust  the  eastern  boundary  of  the  State,  Presidential  Kli'ct»r,  and 
nominee  of  the  Democracy  for  Congress,  having  frequently  canvassed  and  stump 
ed  the  state. 


ONWARD ! 

Onward,  onward,  ever  onward, 
Striving  early,  battling  late, 

Hew  with  manliness  the  long  road 
Leading  up  the  mount  of  Fate  ! 

Onward  press  with  straining  sinews, 


HENET  OAKES  KENT.  471 

On  with  bosom  nobly  bared, 
Onward  'mong  life's  restless  winnows 

Where  its  empt}*  chaffs  declared ! 
Onward,  tighten  up  thine  armor, 

Read  anew  thy  purpose  high, 
Bow  thee  not  before  the  charmer, 

Quail  thou  not  neath  malice's  eye ; 
Slander's  venom,  envy's  curses 

Pass  thou  all  unheeded  by, 
They  shall  load  thee  with  caresses, 

When  thou  gainest  yon  mountain  high  ! 
Poverty  witk  shrunken  finger, 

Sickness  gaunt,  with  hollow  cheek, 
From  the  path  may  bid  thee  linger, 

Bid  thee  falter,  trembling,  weak, — 
Wave  anew  thy  streaming  banner, 

Fling  its  motto  to  the  wind — 
Ye  who  for  Fame's  banquet  hunger, 

Meaner  troubles  leave  behind  ! 
Press  thee  on,  though  dark  and  dreary 

Fall  the  midnight  overhead  ; 
Press  thee  on,  thy  footsteps  weary 

Honored  paths  of  peace  shall  tread  ! 
Press  thee  on,  though  swollen  surges' 

Seem  to  whelm  thee  from  above  ; 
Press  thee  on — Time's  glowing  pages 

Yet  shall  tell  a  People's  love  ! 
Press  thee  on  through  doubt  and  danger, 

Never  fainting,  never  weak  ; 
Press  thee  on,  Fame's  voice,  a  stranger 

To  th}r  waiting  ears,  shall  speak  ! 
Onward! — nobly  doing — daring,       .. 

Doubt  and  danger  winning  past, 
Onward  still,  thy  flag  uprearing, 

Victory  shall  come  at  last ! 

1857. 


WELCOME  HOME ! 

For  the  celebration  of  the  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  town  of  Lancaster, 
July  14,  1864. 

The  mountains  look  down,  in  their  grandeur  and  pride, 

On  the  home  of  our  childhood  to-day  ; 
On  the  wandering  children  who  strayed  from  their  side 

To  gather  rare  flowers  by  the  way. 


472  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIBE. 


They're  united  again  in  the  dear  old  town, 
'Mong  the  streams  and  the  woods   of  yore, 

They  have  fought  well  the  fight  for  gold  and  renown, 
And  the}-  turn  to  their  childhood's  door. 

There  are  those  who  have  lingered  around  the  old  home, 

While  their  brethren  were  far  in  the  strife  ; 
Who  have  tilled  the  old  fields  in  the  years  that  are  past, 

In  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  life  ; 
These  welcome  ye  back,  with  hearts  full  of  joy — 

A  joy  that  commingles  with  pride, 
As  they  greet  with  affection  each  wandering  boy 

To  the  town  where  his  forefathers  died. 

We  gather  to-day  amid  scenes  so  endeared, 

To  crown  with  the  fame  of  her  sons 
The  time-silvered  locks  of  the  mother  revered, 

While  an  hundred  long  winters  have  flown  ; 
To  wreathe  a  full  chaplet  of  daughters'  warm  love 

'Mid  the  silvery  sheen  of  her  hair, — 
As  enduringly  pure  as  the  azure  above 

That  smiles  on  an  homage  so  fair. 

Welcome  home  from  the  East  and  the  West  and  the  South, 

Welcome  home  on  this  dear  natal  day ; 
The  kiss  of  some  loved  one  is  warm  on  each  mouth ; 

Ye  have  tarried  a  long  time  away — 
Welcome  home,  and  forgetting  the  wearying  care 

That  compassed  the  pathway  ye  trod, 
Throw  off  the  chill  years  and  be  young  again  here, 

In  the  smile  of  a  love  born  of  God. 

Welcome  home  to  each  spot  so  remembered  of  yore, 
Welcome  home  to  each  love  that  endures  ; 

Gather  strength  for  the  journey  that  stretches  before, 
Ere  our  sails  leave  life's  vanishing  shores  ; 

Go  forth  from  among  us  with  tokens  of  love, 
•  Glad  burdens  that  weary  not  down  ; 

So  shall  memory's  banquet  be  spread  as  ye  rove 

From  the  home  ye  have  cherished — our  dear  old  town. 


BERTIE. 

When  the  bright  autumn  had  gathered  its  harvest, 
Ripened  and  blest  by  the  rays  of  the  sun, 

Crowning  our  garner,  with  fruitage  the  fairest, 
Dear  little  Bertie's  existauce  begun. 


SARAH  H.  FOSTER.  473 


Sumach  and  bird  plum  and  glowing  red  maple, 
Breezes  that  rustle  where  laughing  streams  run, 

Note  the  glad  fact  on  time's  radiant  table, 
Bertie  our  darling,  is  one  times  one ! 

1867. 


Sara!)  f$.  Jester. 


Miss  Foster  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth.  Her  life  has  been  very  uneventful;  the 
only  variation  from  the  regular  routine  of  home  duties,  consisting  in  two  visits  to 
Europe,  the  last  of  which  was  made  in  1881- '82. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FIRST-BORN  CHILD. 

'And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  sanctify  unto  me  all  the  first-born,  they  are  mine. 

Lord  !  unto  thy  Hebrew  people 
Spake  of  old  thy  law  divine, 
"Consecrated  to  my  service 
All  the  first-born  shall  be  mine." 
Such  the  offering  that  we  bring  thee  ! 
Thou  hast  asked  it,  it  is  thine  ! 

This  sweet  bud,  not  yet  unfolded, 
Tearfully  we  lay  it  down  ; 
We  had  pra}-ed  to  rear  it  for  thee, 
Take  it  Lord,  it  is  thine  own  ; 
Weave  it,  now  we  only  pray  thee, 
Weave  it  in  our  heavenly  crown. 

Many  hopes — how  dear  and  tender 
Thou  who  gav'st  them  only  knew — 
On  thine  altar  we  surrender, 
Humbly  owning  them  thy  due. 
Lord  we  gave  our  hearts  unto  thee, 
Thine  be  all  our  treasures  too  ! 

His  fair  brow  so  calm  and  sinless, 
Earthly  spring  shall  never  kiss  ; 
These  dear  feet  shall  never  wander 
Through  a  world  so  rough  as  this  ; 
This  sweet  spirit's  earliest  smiling 
Shall  be  waked  by  heavenly  bliss. 

Meet  it  is  that  pure  affection 
Place  its  earliest  pledge  above  ; 
Its  first  olive  leaf  sent  heavenward, 
Borne  by  the  celestial  Dove. 
God  of  Grace  !  accept  our  offering  ! 
Take  our  darling  to  thy  love. 


474  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

STANZAS, 

Written  for  the  Soldiers'  Fair,  1869. 

Not  long  ago 

A  darker  cloud  our  country's  sky  o'ercast 
Than  whirling  storm-rifts  on  November's  blast ; 
When  Winter,  stealing  through  sad  Autumn's  gate, 
Found  deeper  cold  on  hearths  made  desolate, 

Than  all  his  snow. 

It  is  not  long 

Since  timid  Spring  on  her  first  southern  breath 
Brought  news  of  terror  and  a  scent  of  death ; 
Since  Summer  met  no  answer  to  her  smiles  ; 
And  the  drum's  clangor  in  her  leaf}'  aisles 

Hushed  the  birds'  song. 

Have  we  forgot 

The  ranks  that  answered  Freedom's  warning  bell, 
Braved  the  death-tempest  and  the  prison-hell, 
With  sturdy  hearts  hurled  back  the  impending  doom, 
But  when  the  trump  of  victory  called  them  home, 

Kesponded  not? 

Not  all  forget ! 

The  struggling  widow  keeps  with  tears  the  day 
That  turned  her  staff  to  dust,  her  hope  to  clay. 
The  shadow  on  the  mother's  brow,  that  fell 
When  her  brave  darling  kissed  his  last  farewell, 

Is  brooding  yet. 

Some  yet  can  tell 

Of  hours  of  anguish,  worse  than  sudden  doom, 
That  left  them  helpless  in  a  helpless  home, 
Crippled  or  broken  from  the  cruel  strife, 
Fettered  forever  in  the  race  of  life 

By  painful  spell. 

Oh  hearts  at  ease  ! 

Your  ease  was  bought  at  price  of  other's  pain  ; 
Another's  loss  your  ransom  and  your  gain  ; 
Your  homes  secure  with  flowers  of  joy  are  strown. 
But  other  homes  grew  dark  to  bless  your  own  ; 

Remember  these ! 

With  open  hand 

Pay  back  the  debt,  where  not,  alas  !  too  late  ; 
Bid  comfort  seek  the  hearths  left  desolate ; 
Save  those  who  saved  3*011  from  misfortune's  blast, 
And  prove  our  country,  mindful  of  the  past, 

A  grateful  land  ! 


HARRIET  MCE  WEN  KIMBALL.  475 

iet  f&cIEtoen  Hhnimll. 


Miss  Kimball's  first  published  book  was  "Hymns,"  which  appeared  in  1867.  It 
gave  her  at  once  a  reputation.  "Swallow  Flights  of  Song,"  was  published  in  1874; 
and  her  third  work,  "The  Blessed  Company  of  all  Faithful  People,"  was  issued  in 
1879.  Portsmouth  is  the  place  of  her  nativity  and  has  always  been  her  home. 


'THE  BLESSED   COMPANY  OF  ALL  FAITHFUL 
PEOPLE." 

Between  the  gray  dawn  and  the  golden  day 

Methought  low  murmurs  troubled  all  the  land  ; 

Disquietude  and  strife  where  should  be  peace, 

In  the  white  tents  of  that  sweet  Prince  of  Peace 

Whose  hosts  encamp  amidst  "a  naughty  world." 

As  swelled  the  murmurs,  under  all  I  heard 

The  sighing  of  the  leaders,  men  of  prayer, 

Steadfast  in  faith  though  sometimes  faint  of  voice, 

Worn  with  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 

And  the  half-hearted  zeal  of  many  a  rank  ; 

And  harsh  above  their  sighings  louder  rose 

The  sounds  of  part}'  and  opposing  speech  ; 

And  louder  yet  the  petty-tongued  complaints 

Of  such  as  had  not  learned  obedience — 

That  first,  last  law  for  these  rebellious  hearts, 

Given  of  God  and  taught  of  Holy  Church. 

Anon,  and  piercing  all  the  clamor  through, 

The  Lord's  own  heralds  blew  their  bugle-notes — 

For  He  would  set  the  faithful  in  array. 

Then  sudden  silence  made  a  little  space 

For  the  One  Voice  that  fills  the  universe, 

And  Christ's  own  roll-call  swept  the  white  camp  through. 

And  lo  !  the  faithful  noiseless  moved  as  thought ; 

Responsive,  yet  unconscious  of  response, 

Their  rapt  eyes  lifted  to  the  shining  morn 

As  seeing  Him  who  is  invisible  ! 

He  named  them  clan  by  clan,  His  chosen  ones ; 

The  poor  in  spirit  and  the  souls  that  mourn, 

The  meek  and  those  for  righteousness  athirst,  : 

The  merciful,  the  pure  in  heart,  the  just, 

The  valiant,  the  forbearing,  named  He  thus  ; 

For  every  clan  a  benediction  sweet, 

And  sweeter  promises  of  victoiy — thus  : 

Blessed  are  the  poor, 

(Jesus  spake,) 

Poor  in  spirit,  for  My  sake  ; 


407  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Who  seek  the  glory  of  this  world  no  more, 
Nor  gather  riches  that  shall  fly  away  : 
Of  the  heavenly  kingdom  heirs  are  they. 

Blessed, 

Blessed  they  who  mourn,  He  said  ; 

Precious  are  the  tears  they  shed, 

The  ashes  on  the  bowed  head  ; 

All  their  sins  confessed, 

They  shall  be  comforted. 

Blessed  are  the  meek 

Who  seek 

The  Father's  will  in  quietness  and  peace, 

Caring  little  for  all  things  beside  ; 

Thej-  shall  increase 

And  with  the  fulness  of  the  earth  be  satisfied. 

Blessed  they,  He  said, 

After  righteousness  an-hungered ; 

Blessed  they  whose  thirst 

The  pleasures  of  this  world  accursed 

Have  not  stilled  ; 

With  My  bread 

Shall  the  famished  be  fed  ; 

With  My  wine  the  parched  lips  be  filled. 

Blessed,  blessed  they, 

The  merciful,  whose  ears 

Are  swift  to  hear  the  crying  of  distress  ; 

Soft  as  the  rain  in  summer  fall  their  tears, 

Their  place  is  found  beside  the  fatherless  ; 

Yea, 

Blessed  they 

To  whom  the  outcast  and  the  poor  complain 

Not  in  vain  ; 

Mercies  numberless 

They  hereafter  shall  obtain. 

Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  He  said  ; 

Whose  feet  the  paths  of  holiness  do  tread, 

Whose  looks  are  God-ward  and  whose  hands  are  clean  ; 

Through  glories  manifold 

Shall  they  behold 

Him  whom  no  eye  hath  seen. 


HAEBIET  MCE  WEN  KIMBALL.  477 

Blessed  they  who  seek 

To  turn  all  strife  to  peace  ; 

Whose  words  are  as  a  covert  to  the  weak, 

"Who  make  the  anger  of  the  strong  to  cease  ; 

Children  of  God  shall  they 

Be  called  for  aye. 

Blessed  they  who  steadfast  stand 

Through  persecutions  dread ; 

Though  on  every  hand 

The  wicked  bend  the  bow 

To  lay  them  low  ; 

Theirs  the  kingdom  never  vanquished. 

Blessed  ye  when  men  revile 

And  persecute  you  falsely,  for  My  sake  ; 

Ye  who,  walking  without  guile, 

With  Me  partake 

Shame  and  scorn  awhile. 

Yea,  rejoice, 

Ye  who  fly  not  from  the  arrows  of  the  strong ; 

Be  exceeding  glad,  for  unto  you  is  given 

Great  reward  in  Heaven  ; 

Even  now  lift  up  your  voice 

In  victorious  song ; 

For  so  persecuted  they 

The  prophets  in  their  day  : 

Again,  rejoice. 

Then  all  the  winds  of  heaven  :  Amen !  Amen  I 


THOU  ART  A  PLACE  TO  HIDE  ME  IN. 

Without,  I  hear  the  beating  of  the  rain, 

The  howling  winds  that  tell  the  storm's  increase  ; 

O  covert  sure  that  he  who  seeks  may  gain  ! — 
Within,  abideth  peace. 

Without,  I  hear  the  sound  of  feet  that  halt 
And  grope  and  stumble  in  the  blinding  night ; 

O  blessed  faith  that  serveth  in  default 
Of  what  men  call  the  light ! 

O  rest,  O  wa}  side  inn,  where  home  is  not, 
For  the  poor  pilgrim  to  that  city  fair, 

Where  strife  shall  cease  and  doublings  be  forgot ! 
The  Lamb,  the  Light  is  there  ! 


478  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSIIIEE. 

HYMN  FOR  ADVENT. 

Breathe,  virgin  souls,  anew  the  vows 
Your  heavenly  Bridegroom  claims  ! 

His  sign  \e  wear  upon  your  brows 
Traced  in  baptismal  flames. 

Oh,  by  that  sweet  and  awful  sign 

He  calls  }"ou  to  be  wise  ; 
Earth's  glory  wanes,  the  suns  decline, 

And  midnight  wins  the  skies. 

Arise,  love's  holy  lamps  to  trim, 
With  faith  their  flame  renew, 

Lest  He  who  cometh  find  them  dim 
And  sleep  possessing  you. 

He  cometh — when  ?  Who  answereth  when  ? 

Who  names  his  nameless  day? 
The  word  he  spake  he  speaks  again, 

Yet  neither  yea,  nor  nay. 

Watch  !  Watch  !  His  solemn  charge  alone  : 

And  every  beat  of  time 
Repeats  in  awe's  unchanging  tone 

The  Lord's  own  word  sublime. 

Blest  watch  !  or  long  the  hours  or  brief; 

The  Bridegroom  shall  appear. 
To  hearts  wherein  his  love  is  chief, 

Even  now  he  draweth  near. 


A  HYMN  OF  CONTRITION. 

Since  for  Thy  lips  were  mingled,  O  my  Lord, 

The  vinegar  and  gall, 
Should  I  not  sa}-,  earth's  sweet  things  be  abhorred, 

And  sweet  earth's  bitter  call ! 

Since  thou  for  me  the  cup  of  death  didst  drain — 

Yea,  O  my  Lord,  for  me  ! — 
My  cup  of  ills  should  I  not  take  as  fain 

To  share  one  draught  with  thee  ? 

O  Victor- Victim,  though  the  flesh  afraid 

Sink  trembling  at  thy  feet, 
Cast  over  it  thy  pity's  awful  shade 

And  hear  me  thee  entreat ! 


HARRIET  MCEWEN  KIMBALL.  479 

Make  Thou  these  tears  of  penitence  and  shame 

For  sin  and  frailties  all, 
More  sharp  than  vinegar,  more  hot  than  flame, 

And  bitterer  than  gall. 

Then  Lord,  in  ever}-  draught  wilt  thou  distil 

Thine  own  exceeding  peace, 
To  sweeten  all  the  cup  earth's  sorrows  fill, 

Till  earth  and  sorrow  cease. 


JESUS  MY  REFUGE. 

Jesus,  my  refuge  !  to  the  secret  places 

Where  thou  dost  hide,  I  flee, 
To  learn  thy  blessed  truth,  from  all  the  mazes 

Of  human  thought  set  free. 

Without  denial  and  without  refraining 

I  must  receive  thy  word  ; 
Not  what  thou  meanest  after  man's  explaining, 

But  what  thou  sa}"est  Lord  ! 

Shut  from  the  strife  of  tongues  that  yield  confusion, 

Quick  grows  the  inward  ear 
Thy  sweet  assurance,  stripped  of  all  delusion, 

In  humble  faith  to  hear. 

In  mj'steries  bej^ond  the  dim  perceiving 

Of  reason's  clouded  e}-es, 
Thou  dost  reveal  thyself  to  souls  believing — 

Too  loving  for  disguise. 

And  oh,  how  loving,  dearest  Lord,  how  tender 

Beyond  all  love  thou  art, 
When  to  th}T  feet  we  cling  in  full  surrender, 

With  sorrow-broken  heart ! 

Absolving,  healing,  strengthening,  uniting, 

Through  sacramental  grace, 
And  to  communion  closer  yet  inviting, 

Thou  dost  unveil  thy  face. 

For  faith  alone,  low-kneeling  in  contrition, 

The  load  of  sin  grows  light ; 
To  faith  alone  thou  dost  vouchsafe  that  vision, 

And  faith  is  almost  sight. 


480  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  LIGHT  OF  LIGHT. 

The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee, 
The  gracious  skies  are  clear  and  bright ; 

O  Light  of  Light,  we  turn  to  thee ; 
Without  thy  rays  it  still  were  night. 

The  raid-day  sun  ma}-  cloudless  shine, 
And  all  our  way  seem  smooth  and  fair  ; 

There  are  no  rays  save  only  thine 
Can  show  the  quicksand  or  the  snare. 

And  when  the  storms  of  sorrow  beat, 
And  darkness  falls,  and  joy  takes  flight, 

Thy  presence  is  a  sure  retreat, 
And  in  our  dwelling  there  is  light. 

O  Jesus,  fount  of  joy  and  grace, 
That  light  on  all  our  darkness  pour, 

Until  beyond  these  nights  and  days 
We  dwell  in  light  forevermore  ! 


VALE. 

Good-night,  O  Earth  !  the  nights  are  growing  long  ; 

The  days  are  brief; 
Life  hath  one  solemn  burden  for  its  song : 

"As  fades  the  leaf." 

Good-night,  poor  World !  if  thou  art  full  of  sin, 

Why,  so  am  I ! 
In  this  proud  heart  to  judge  would  I  begin, 

Nor  self  pass  by. 

Good-night,  my  foe  !  not  all  the  wrong  is  thine  ; 

My  share  I  own  ; 
Forgive  ! — we,  human,  know  one  word  divine  ! — 

The  sun  goes  down. 

Good-night,  good  friend  !  though  poor  my  gifts  to  thee, 

I  will  not  fret ; 
The  richer  thou  whose  bounty  is  so  free, 

And  sweet  my  debt. 

No  longer  to  revenge  nor  to  repay 

I  strive  or  seek  ; 
Empty  I  came — must  empty  go  away, 

Empty  and  weak. 


LUCY  EOGEES  HILL  CROSS.  481 

As  one  who  wakes  no  more  to  smile  or  weep 

Another  day, 
So  would  I  lay  me  humbly  down  to  sleep, 

And  humbly  say : 

O  Thou  who  hadst  not  where  to  lay  thy  head, 

As  poor  were  I, 
Did  not  thy  mercy  make  for  me  a  bed 

Whereon  to  die. 


Hun? 


Mrs.  Cross  was  born  in  Northfleld,  July  9,  1834.  She  graduated  in  18«0  at  the 
N.  H.  Conference  Seminary  and  Female  College,  having  previously  taught  all  the 
schools  in  her  native  town,  but  one,  and  several  terms  in  adjoining  towns.  After 
graduation  she  became  assistant  in  the  Merrimack  Grammar  School,  in  Concord, 
leaving  in  18(52  to  teach  in  Melrose,  Mass.  She  returned  to  Concord  after  two 
years,  and  became  principal  of  the  school  in  which  she  had  been  an  assistant. 
she  was  married  to  Oliver  L.  Cross,  a  graduate  of  Dartmouth  and  a  member  of  the 
bar;  and  in  1867  they  went  to  Montgomery  City,  Mo.,  but  returned  after  three  years 
to  Northfleld,  where  they  now  reside. 


A  SONG  OF  THP;  HOUR. 


With  ring  and  jingle  and  faces  bright, 

Out  in  the  air  of  the  frosty  night, 

Go  the  sleigh  riders,  with  laughter  and  song, 

Waking  the  echoes,  they  hurry  along. 

Out  from  the  lights  of  the  village  away, 

On  past  the  wood  where  the  winter  birds  stay, 

Past  the  bright  homes  of  the  hill-slopes  beyond, 

Down  by  the  meadows  a-skirting  the  pond, 

Never  once  heeding  the  wind  or  the  cold, 

For  the  horses  are  fleet  and  the  driver  is  bold. 

Ring  and  jingle  the  resonant  bells, 

And  the  mingled  laughter  the  merriment  swells. 

One  would  almost  envy  the  Laplanders  bold, 
In  their  Arctic  home  so  icy  and  cold, 
As,  clad  in  their  snowy  furs,  out  in  the  night 
Their  sledges  keep  time  to  the  reindeer's  flight, 
And  the  waving  Aurora  writes  joy  on  the  sky, 
As  the  long  hours  of  winter  go  joyously  by  ; 
For  there's  nothing  on  earth  one  half  so  gay 
As  a  rollicking  ride  in  a  rushing  sleigh. 

Little  they  know  who  dwell  in  that  clime 

Where  winter  disturbs  not  the  sweet  summer  time 


482  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Of  the  rush  of  the  pulse  and  the  cheek's  rudd}"  glow 
That  come  from  a  dash  when  the  sleigh  riders  go. 
Let  him  stay  behind  who  chooses,  I  go 
To  share  a  pleasure  he  never  can  know. 
Talk  not  to  me  then  of  the  charms  of  the  Ma}*, 
Or  the  fragrant  flowers  that  on  June's  bosom  lay, 
Of  the  whippoorwill's  song  or  the  sweet  scented  hay, 
Or  the  wild-wood  chorus  at  breaking  of  day  ; 
For  nothing — no,  nothing  can  ever  compare 
With  a  rushing  ride  through  the  frost  laden  air. 


SCENES  FROM  REAL  LIFE. 

FIRST    SCENE. 

Draw  down  the  curtains  and  turn  down  the  light, 
On  the  broad  hearth-stone  the  embers  are  bright, 
Grandpa  is  keeping  the  children  to-night. 

How  like  a  king  he  sits  in  his  pride, 
Sweet  little  Roger  and  Jennie  beside  ; 
Little*  they  care  for  the  dark  world  outside. 

How  the  laugh  echoes,  the  stories  go  round. 
How  the  cheeks  redden,  the  little  hearts  bound  ; 
Grandpa  once  more  his  boyhood  has  found ; 

How  the  flames  flicker  and  dance  on  the  walls, 

As  he  tells  them  of  Brigands  and  ghost-haunted  halls  ; 

And  the  wind  whistles  loud  and  the  icy  rain  falls. 

Breathless  they  list  to  each  tale  of  affright, 
"How  goblins  looked  into  men's  windows  at  night, 
And  every  lone  dell  was  the  haunt  of  some  sprite." 

Of  little  "Red  Riding  Hood"  out  in  the  wood 
Carrying  cheer  to  .her  grandmother  good, 
How  in  her  pathway  the  grim  monster  stood, 

Eyes  fill  with  terror ;  the  tear  drops  run  o'er ; 
Sure,  they  are  hearing  a  wolf  at  their  door ; 
Grandpa  !  oh  !  grandpa  !  tell  them  no  more. 

For  when  stories  are  over,  and  little  pra3Ters  said, 
And  the  tired  little  darlings  are  nestled  in  bed, 
The  same  frightful  visions  may  vex  each  fair  head. 

Gazing,  I  see  that  the  picture  is  ours, 
Hidden  away  with  the  past  and  its  flowers, 
A  treasure  untold,  for  life's  darker  hours. 


LUCY  EOGEES  HILL  CROSS. 


SECOND    SCENE. 

Now  from  the  scene  lifts  the  curtain  once  more  ; 
Boyhood  and  school-days  at  college  are  o'er, 
Roger  is  pushing  his  boat  from  the  shore. 

'Tis  no  regatta,  no  holiday  strife, 

lloger  is  off  for  the  voyage  of  life  ; 

Can  it  be  that  such  skies  with  tempests  are  rife  ? 

Father  with  warnings,  mother  with  tears, 
Point  out  the  perils  that  come  with  the  years  ; 
Roger,  oh  !  Roger,  give  heed  to  their  fears. 

Long  ago,  Roger,  the  Hoty  Book  said, 
"Look  not  at  all  when  the  wine  cup  is  red, 
Within  it  a  serpent  is  hiding  its  head." 

Heed  not  the  "Siren's"  voice  ;  shun  her  bright  isle  ; 
There's  a  charm  in  her  voice,  but  there's  death  in  her  smile  ; 
Many  a  heart  she  of  old  did  beguile. 

Learn  of  Ulysses,  who,  chained  to  the  mast, 
Deafened  his  crew,  till  her  bright  bovvers  were  passed, 
Lest  to  ship  and  to  crew  the  voyage  were  the  last.- 

Far  o'er  the  waters,  so  bright  in  the  sun, 
Glided  the  little  bark  bearing  him  on  ; 
Blow  gently  winds  !  till  the  haven  is  won. 

THIRD    SCENE. 

Hark  !  on  the  waves  of  the  sweet  summer  air, 
Rings  out  a  "Wedding  Bell,"  mellow  and  fair, 
And  beauty  and  fragrance  are  everywhere. 

Fair  as  a  vision  of  morning  appears 
Bridal  robed  Jenn}-,  in  spite  of  her  tears, 
And  Harry  the  playmate  of  earlier  years. 

Now,  before  Heaven,  still  pledge  they  anew 
Love  and  devotion  life's  long  journey  through, 
For  Jenny  is  trusting  and  Harry  is  true. 

Like  a  bright  beacon  through  tempest  and  night, 
Shines  a  new  hearth-stone  with  heart-cheering  light  ; 
For  love  is  a  guest,  and  the  future  is  bright. 


484  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

ffi.  i:\otmson, 

Mrs.  Itobinson,  the  second  daughter  of  George  E.  Mudd,  of  Wolfoboroiigh,  is  a 
native  of  that  town.  In  1860  abe  graduated  from  tin-  state  Normal  school  in  sait-m. 
Ma>s.,  having  the  part  of  class  poet,  and  contributing  two  hymns  for  the  occasion. 
In  18IKJ  she  furnished  hy  invitation  a  poem  for  the  Triennial  Convention  of  tin- 
Aim!)!!!  of  that  Institution.  For  about  seven  years  .she  was  a  tjwher  in  Kiinhall 
Union  Academy.  In  1872  she  married  Thomas  Robinson,  of  Salisl)iirv,  Kiift- 
land,  who  is  now  a  professor  iu  Howard  University,  Washington,  {>.  (  . 


THE  OLD  CLOCK. 

Merrily,  merrily,  how  it  ticks  ! 

The  dear  old  clock  by  the  wall ; 
Keeping  time  in  musical  chime, 

As  the  sunbeams  rise  and  fall. 

Mournfully,  mournfully,  how  it  ticks  ! 

As  the  hush  of  the  night  comes  on  ; 
Keeping  time,  with  holier  chime, 

To  the  tread  of  the  moments  gone. 

Warning!}',  warningly,  how  it  ticks  ! 

In  the  ear  from  day  to  day ; 
Keeping  time  in  solemn  chime, 

'Tis  ticking  our  lives  away. 


MAY  22,  1882. 

Ring  loud  the  gold  and  silver  bells, 

This  sunny  day  of  May, 
'Twas  one  and  one  that  made  but  one 

Ten  years  ago  to-day  ! 

Bring  roses  red  and  roses  white 

And  pansies  rich  and  gay, 
To  make  our  home  with  gladness  bright, 

This  sunny  day  of  May  ! 

'Tis  Love  shall  make  our  home  most  bright, 
And  Love  shall  be  Queen  of  May  : 

'Tis  only  Love  gives  Life  and  Light 
On  this  our  wedding  day. 

Let's  make  a  cord  both  true  and  strong 

To  bind  forever  and  aye, 
And  be  to  each  other  Light  and  Song, 

From  this  our  wedding  da}'. 

I 


MARY  M.  ROBINSON.  485 

THE  SONG  OF  LIFE. 

What  song  have  I  played  on  the  harp-strings  of  life 

Through  all  this  gone  cycle  of  years, — 
Of  years  made  of  days,  of  days  made  of  hours, 

And  hours  made  of  sunshine  and  tears  ? 

In  childhood,  a  prattle  as  merry  and  wild 

As  the  bobolink's  summer-time  lay  ; 
In  youth  'twas  a  trill  that  rose  at  each  smile, 

And  fell  as  the  smile  died  away. 

And  now  what  song  from  the  harp-strings  of  life 

Through  the  still  air  tremblingly  rings  ? 
Ay,  trembling  it  comes  ; — God  knoweth  the  touch 

That  playeth  the  silver  strings. 

Thus  do  I  question,  alone,  and  unheard 

Except  by  the  All-hearing  Ear; 
While  the  free,  bounding  air  comes  back  to  my  lips, 

And  a  sigh's  the  response  that  I  hear. 

But  I  know  that  hereafter  when  the  seal  shall  come, 

And  knowledge  and  truth  shall  be  given,. 
The  song  I  shall  hear,  with  discord  unblent,         . 

Mid  the  harmony  perfect  of  Heaven. 


A  RETROSPECT. 

O  don't  j'ou  remember  our  home,  Sister, 

Our  home  far   down  in  the  dell 
Where  the  violets  blossomed  in  spring-time, 

By  the  dear  old  meadow  well  ? 

And  don't  you  remember  the  orchard,  too, 

And  the  plum-trees  standing  by, 
The  pinks  and  the  daisies  and  currants  so  red, 

And  the  creeper  clambering  nigh  ? 

And  don't  you  remember  the  wood,  Sister, 
Where  the  beech  and  the  maples  grew, 

And  the  spruce  and  the  pine  gave  forth  a  sigh 
As  the  night-winds  swept  them  through  ? 

And  the  old  grey  rock  where  we  used  to  play 

And  imagine  age  was  old, 
"When  life  seemed  all  as  a  morning  dream, 

And  sorrow  a  tale  that  is  told  ? 


486  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  the  golden  corn  when  autumn  came  ; 

How  it  filled  the  chambers  wide  ! 
And  the  old-fashioned  l«om  that  long  had  sat 

By  the  well-worn  stair- way  side  ? 

And  the  old  wooden  gate  that  for  many  a  year 
Had  creaked  on  its  weariless  hinge  ; 

And  the  willow  that  stood  with  its  far-reaching  hands 
And  its  garb  of  tassels  and  fringe  ? 

The  fair-haired  boy  you  remember  still, 

And  our  sad  and  last  good-bye 
When  the  shadows  of  night  had  fallen  low. 

And  the  spring  was  drawing  nigh. 

How  he  calmly  passed  to  his  silent  rest 

And  returned  to  us  no  more  ; 
Still  brightly  shone  the  sun  in  the  dell, 

And  as  bright  on  the  cottage  floor. — 

But  adieu  to  the  cot,  the  gate  and  the  tree, 

To  the  loved  now  gone  from  our  sight ; 
For  the  picture  goes  by  like  a  gleam  in  the  sky, 
And  the  sober  To-day  comes  on  while  we  say 
"Farewell"  to  this  vision  of  light. 


£.  a.  Sinter. 


Mrs.  Senter,  a  daughter  of  Rev.  John  Adams,  was  born  at  Great  Falls,  Sept.  1, 
1834.  She  was  educated  at  New  Haven,  Ct.,  and  at  Northfleld.  She  married  E.  L. 
Senter,  an  extensive  farmer  and  trader.  They  reside  at  their  beautiful  country 
seat  in  Greenland.  The  poems  of  her  brother,  Enoch  G.  Adams,  are  found  in  this 
volume. 


ARE  THERE  NO  MEMORIES? 

Are  there  no  memories  in  thy  mind, 
Like  fragrance  of  sweet  flowers, 

Borne  to  thee  by  some  gentle  wind, 
At  twilight's  peaceful  hours*? 

Are  there  no  memories  like  the  light 

That  beautifies  the  west, 
And  keeps  afar  the  shades  of  night 

That  come  thy  life  to  bless  ? 

Are  there  no  memories,  hidden  deep, 

That  all  thy  life  control, 
And,  like  a  watch-fire,  ever  keep 

And  purify  the  soul  ? 


MARY  A.  A.  SENTEE.  487 

Are  there  no  memories  dearer  far 

Than  aught  of  earth  to  thee, 
That,  like  the  faithful  polar  star, 

Will  guide  thee  o'er  life's  sea? 

Are  there  no  memories  like  the  chime 

Of  music  to  thine  ear, 
That  come  to  thee  from  time  to  time, 

Thy  loneliness  to  cheer? 

Are  there  no  memories,  tell  me  friend, 

That  never  will  decay, 
Not  even  when  this  life  shall  end, 

And  thou  hast  passed  away  ? 

And  if  to  memor}*  must  be  brought 

All  that  we  say  and  do, 
Oh  !  may  we  watch  that  there  be  naught 

But  what  is  good  and  true. 


HOPING  IN  VAIN. 

Know'st  what  it  is  to  watch  and  wait, 
And  see  each  fond  hope  die, — 

As  some  lone  watcher  by  the  sea 
Beholds  each  sail  go  by  ? 

Or  as  a  wanderer  returns 

Unto  his  native  shore, 
And  finds  the  lov'd  ones  that  he  left 

Can  greet  him  never  more  ? 

Or  as  when  one  who  long  has  watched 

Above  the  couch  of  pain, 
Thinking  at  last  the  loved  one  sleeps, 

Finds  he'll  not  wake  again  ? 

Or  as  a  traveller  at  night 

Goes  on  without  dela}", 
Thinking  at  last  he's  almost  home, 

Finds  still  he's  far  away  ? 

Or  as  when  one  who's  labored  long 
Some  honored  place  to  gain 

Finds  that  his  life,  and  labor  too, 
Have  both  alike  been  vain? 

And  so  it  is  with  things  of  earth, — 

The}-  glitter  to  decoy, 
And  none  of  all  its  pleasures  e'er 

Can  give  us  lasting  joy. 


488  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


fttattie  IE.  Smiti). 


Mr*.  Smith  is  a  native  of  Concord,  a  daughter  of  John  N.  Pierson.  When  sin- 
was  ten  years  of  aije  the  family  removed  to  Covington,  Ky.,  where  she  received  a 
portion  of  her  education  at  the  school  <>!  Prof.  A.  T  Goodhue,  a  cousin  of  her  fath 
er.  In  1855  her  father  removed  to  Minnesota,  and  settled  on  a  farm  near  Ottawa. 
She  remained  in  Kentucky,  teaching,  until  the  autumn  of  1857,  when  she  ;ilso  went 
to  Minnesota.  In  1859  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Edson  It.  Smith  of  Le  Sueur,  in  that 
State. 


HOPE  ON  !  HOPE  EVER ! 

Whj'  weep  in  woe !  and  seem  to  be 

Of  grief  and  sorrow  fond, 
Nor  try  to  pierce  the  darkling  clouds, 

To  catch  a  glimpse  beyond? 
But  just  above  those  sorrow  clouds, 

The  golden  sunbeams  stay  ; 
Then  why  not  mount  on  wings  of  faith, 

And  bid  them  round  thee  play  ? 

Oh,  is  it  right  to  fold  th}T  hands 

In  mute  and  calm  despair, 
To  sit  thee  down  in  idleness, 

And  brood  on  naught  but  care? 
Oh  no  !  our  mission  is  designed 

A  brother's  lot  to  cheer ; 
His  griefs  to  soothe,  his  wounds  to  bind, 

While  on  our  journey  here. 

Then  grieve  not,  friend,  when  troubles  come, 

Nor  fear  to  sorrow  meet ; 
But  look  to  God,  and  humbly  bow 

In  resignation  sweet. 
Thine  eye  is  not  the  only  one 

That's  bathed  in  sorrow's  tear ; 
Some  othe*r  heart  in  grief  is  bowed, 

Which  thou  might  help  to  cheer. 

Go,  find  that  heart  less  blest  than  thine, 

And  pour  within  his  ear 
Sweet  words  of  peace,  and  comfort  too, 

With  sympathizing  cheer. 
Then  shalt  thou  find  a  happiness 

Around  thy  being  thrown  ; 
The  peace  diffused  in  others'  hearts 

Shall  make  more  blest  thine  own. 


GEORGE  G  OBD  ON  B  YR  ON  DE  WOLFE.  489 


<£ortiott  Bgron 


This  poet  was  born  in  Digby,  Nova  Scotia,  February  15,  1835.  His  parents,  when 
lie  was  about  seven  years  old,  removed  to  St.  John,  New  Brunswick,  where  he  liv 
ed  until  about  twenty  years  of  age,  when  he  left  his  father's  home,  and  came  to  the 
United  States,  and  commenced  the  work  which  he  followed  until  his  death,  namely, 
travelling  from  state  to  state,  from  town  to  town,  writing  verses  on  people,  places, 
and  popular  events.  He  was  married  iu  I860  to  Miss  Eliza  Hargrove,  of  Bradford, 
"Yorkshire,  England.  They  came  to  reside  in  Nashua,  where  he  died  Jan.  22,  1873. 
From  the  rapidity  with  which  he  wrote  he  was  called  the  "Steam-Machine  Poet." 
In  later  years  he  was  known  as  the  "Wandering  Poet  of  New  Hampshire." 


LOUISA'S  GRAVE. 

Never  Nature  did  look  sweeter ; 

She  has  donned  her  choice  array  ; 
Eveiy  streamlet  rings  its  metre,  • 

Bidding  welcome  to  the  May. 
Beauty,  thinking  naught  excels  thee, 

How  thy  many  gems  I  crave ! 
In  thy  midst  a  marble  tells  me 

That  I'm  at  "Louisa's  grave  !" 

When  she  left  this  land  where  flowers, 

Though  they're  beautiful,  must  fade, 
What  her  years,  her  days  or  hours, 

Not  the  little  marble  said. 
Though  it  smiled  on  May-time's  lustre, — 

Stood  erect  like  chieftain  brave, — 
All  the  language  it  could  muster 

Were  the  words — "Louisa's  Grave  !" 

But  the  charms  did  round  it  dally  ; 

Ever}'  streamlet  passing  by, 
Every  floweret  in  the  valle}', 

Every  sun-ray  in  the  sk}-, — 
All  my  eyes  were  then  admiring, — 

To  my  quest  this  answer  gave, 
"She's  no  home  on  earth  desiring; 

This  is  not  'Louisa's  Grave  !' " 

Then  I  thought  of  Him  above  us, 

Monarch  of  both  land  and  sea, 
He  who  doth  protect  and  love  us, 

Moulder  of  Eternitj' !    \ 
'Twas  a  world  the  Lord  of  Glory 

Died  on  Calvaiy  to  save, 
Well  I  understood  the  story, — 

"This  is  not  'Louisa's  Grave  !' " 


490  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

LINES. 

Look  at  }'on  moon,  my  ladylove, 

With  sparkling  lustre  beam, 
Behold  !  it  sends  a  ray  of  light 

To  beautify  the  stream. 
The  waters  glisten  brighter  far 

Than  silver  from  Peru  ; 
The  trees  lift  up  their  noble  heads 

To  sup  the  gentle  clew. 

Oh,  lady,  'neath  that  satellite 

How  man}'  lovers  stroll ! 
How  swiftl}'  pass  their  golden  hours  ! 

How  fast  the  minutes  roll ! 
Alas  !  tnat  even's  hours  should  glide 

As  if  on  angels'  wings, 
When  lovers  hold  their  sweet  converse, 

Nor  envy  thrones  of  kings  ! 

Ah,  lady,  little  dost  thou  think 

How,  'neath  that  bright  moon's  beam, 
I've  often  sat  and  thought  of  thee, 

Then  laid  me  down  to  dream. 
Then  didst  thou  creep  up  to  my  side, 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
Bright  tales  of  love  and  happiness, — 

Oh  !  joj'ous  'twere  to  hear  ! 

But  when  I  woke,  tliou  wast  not  there  ; 

The  ground  with  dew  was  damp, 
And  brightly  in  the  azure  sk}* 

Shone  night's  bespreading  lamp. 
Oh,  lad}',  thou  art  near  me  now ! 

'Tis  no  delusive  dream  ! 
And  we  may  tell  our  tales  of  love 

Beneath  that  planet's  beam  ! 


Urtetoi. 


Mrs.  Bristol,  a  daughter  of  the  late  Otis  Cooper,  was  born  in  Croydon,  April  17, 
1835.  Her  education  was  obtained,  for  the  most  part,  at  the  common  school.  Un 
musical  and  poetical  ability  became  evident  in  childhood.  Her  first  poem  \vns 
composed  at  the  age  of  eight,  but  none  were  published  until  after  her  liiuvntli 
year.  At  that  time  she  commenced  her  vocation  as  teacher  and  followed  that  call 
ing  for  several  years.  In  1866  she  married  Louis  Bristol,  a  lawyer  from  New 
Haven,  Conn.,  then  residing  near  Carbomlale,  111.  In  1808,  the  thi'rd  year  of  her 
residence  in  Illinois,  her  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in  Boston.  From 
childhood  to  the  present  time  Mrs.  Bristol's  life  has  been  characterized  by  constant 
effort  and  achievement.  While  discharging  the  responsibilities  of  private  life,  she 


AUGUSTA  COOPER  BEISTOL.  491 

yc-t  labors  assiduously  for  social  progress  through  the  agency  of  the  pen  and  the 
platform.  Some  of  her  philosophic  and  scientific  lectures  have  been  translated 
iind  published  in  foreign  countries,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  the  pressing  questions  of 
human  progress  in  which  she  has  of  late  years  been  actively  engaged,  will  ever 
permit  her  to  resume  again,  in  any  considerable  degree,  the  vocation  of  a  poet.  She 
resides  at  Vineland,  N.  J. 


THE  HIGHER  LIFE. 

Within  our  lives  of  conscious  care, 
There  lies  another,  fair  and  sweet ; 

All  gracious  sanctities  are  there, 
And  trust,  and  consecrations  mete  ; 

A  heaven  that  lieth  not  apart, 

A  spirit  world  within  the  heart. 

And  yet  we  grope  with  veiled  eyes 
For  that  which  lieth  near  at  hand, 

And  lift  the  voice  with  prayerful  cries, 
Through  darkness,  to  an  unknown  land, 

While  close  beside  us  runs  the  way 

That  broadens  to  divinest  day. 

I  looked  upon  the  summer  world, 
I  heard  the  gladness  of  her  rills, 

I  saw  her  sunset  banners  furled 
Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  hills, 

And,  looking,  in  1113'  conscious  heart 

I  said,  "God  dwelleth  not  apart." 

If,  in  the  ancient  days,  his  feet 

Pressed  fragrance  from  a  garden  walk, 

And  our  frail  mother  heard  his  sweet 
And  gracious  ministry  of  talk, 

If  she  e'er  saw  his  face  divine, 

I  hold  the  privilege  as  mine. 

And  A*et  my  eyes  are  shadowed  quite ; 

So  darkened,  that  I  cannot  see 
To  read  the  wondrous  law  aright 

That  draws  Him  to  humanity. 
If  I  can  make  an  Eden  place, 
Perchance  he  will  reveal  his  face. 

A  place  of  blossoms,  perfect,  fair, 
With  emerald  arches  reaching  wide  ; 

No  common  bloom  shall  open  there, 
But  heavenly  beaut3'  shall  abide : 

He  will  return  to  warn  and  bless, 

Drawn  b}'  the  law  of  perfectness. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


And  then  from  morn  till  eve  I  sought 
For  shrub  and  blossom,  rich  and  rare  ; 

From  morn  till  eve  I  patient  wrought 
To  make  my  garden  faultless  fair : 

The  common  flower  I  did  uproot, 

And  crushed  it  with  a  careless  foot. 

And  soon  it  grew  a  wondrous  place 
Of  strange  and  supreme  loveliness, 

Where  fringe-tree  5,  with  a  mystic  grace, 
Shook  in  their  airy  vapor  dress, 

And  the  magnolia's  waxen  bloom 

Through  glossy  thickets  breathed  perfume. 

And  near  the  fountain's  circling  line, 
The  rich  rose  spread  her  leaves  apart, 

And  dropt  her  bosom's  amber  wine 
Into  the  lily's  open  heart ; 

And  the  azalea's  pink  and  snow 

Gave  the  green  light  a  sunset  glow. 

But  all  in  vain  the  thicket's  shade, 

The  fount,  and  groves  of  blooming  flame, 

For  he  whose  presence  I  essayed 

With  yearnings  deep — he  never  came  : 

In  vain  I  walked  that  perfect  spot, 

For  if  he  came,  I  knew  it  not. 

Then  in  a  frantic  ecstasy 

That  would  not  be  o'erborne,  I  cried, 
"I  cannot  win  the  heavens  to  me, 

Though  all  perfection  liere  abide  ; 
And  since  I  cannot  reach  so  high, 
1  will  iny  own  heart  satisfy." 

"The  little  field-flower  shall  find  grace 
Within  in}-  sight ; — I  will  not  pass 

The  meadow  blossom,  but  give  place 
To  common  blooms  of  common  grass  : 

I  cannot  draw  the  Lord  above  ; 

I'll  make  a  place  for  human  love." 

And  in  the  gladness  of  the  thought, 

I  sought  the  azure  violet, 
And  buttercups  and  daisies  brought, 

And  in  my  garden  border  set 
The  crow-foot  and  the  gentian  too, 
And  forest  harebell,  softly  blue. 


AUGUSTA  COOPER  BRISTOL.  493 

When  lo  !  A  sudden  glor}'  fell 

Around  me,  touching  all  with  grace  ; 
For  love  with  mystic  charm  and  spell, 

Had  found  me  working  at  1113'  place, 
And  gave  to  me  the  magic  key 
That  ope'd  the  higher  life  for  me. 

Then  from  m}"  vision  fled  away 

The  darkening  shadows,  and  I  saw 
The  rose-tree  and  the  thistle  spray 

Evolving  by  divinest  law  ; 
Divinest  life  and  essence  ran 
From  atom  dust  to  conscious  man. 

One  law  of  life  was  everywhere, 

From  starry  sphere  to  blossom  seed  ; 
It  moved  the  sea  ;  it  filled  the  air 

With  vital  breath ;  and  I  could  read 
Eternal  scripture  on  the  stone, 
And  I  no  longer  walked  alone. 


THE  PYXIDANTHERA. 

V 

Sweet  child  of  April !  I  have  found  thy  place 
Of  deep  retirement.     Where  the  low  swamp  ferns 
Curl  upward  from  their  sheaths,  and  lichens  creep 
Upon  the  fallen  branch,  and  mosses  dank 
Deepen  and  brighten  ;  where  the  ardent  sun 
Doth  enter  with  restrained  and  chastened  beam, 
And  the  light  cadence  of  the  blue-bird's  song 
Doth  falter  in  the  cedar — there  the  spring, 
In  quietude,  hath  wrought  the  sweet  surprise 
And  marvel  of  thy  unobtrusive  bloom. 

Most  perfect  symbol  of  my  purest  thought, —   .     . 
A  thought  so  close  and  warm  within  my  heart, 
No  words  can  shape  its  secret,  and  no  prayer 
Can  breathe  its  sacredness, — be  thou  my  type, 
And  breathe  to  one  who  wanders  here  at  dawn 
The  deep  devotion  which,  transcending  speech, 
Lights  all  the  folded  silence  of  my  heart, 
As  thy  sweet  beauty  doth  the  shadow  here. 

So  let  thy  clusters  brighten,  star  on  star 
Of  pink  and  white,  about  his  lingering  feet, 
Till  dreaming  and  enchanted,  there  will  pass 
Into  his  life,  the  story  that  my  soul 


494  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Hnth  given  thee.     So  shall  his  will  be  stirred 

To  purest  purpose  and  divinest  deed, 

And  every  hour  be  touched  with  grace  and  light. 


SONG  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

The  morning,  the  morning,  the  beautiful  morning ! 

It  breaketh  in  waves  of  gold  ! 
And  the  mountains  that  lifted  their  foreheads  in  scorning, 

With  frownings  terrific  and  bold, 
Are  shining  at  last  through  an  amber  adorning 

Of  mantle,  and  ripple,  and  fold. 

0  happy  bee,  linger  with  me  in  the  clover ! 
For  da}-  is  only  begun  : 

Just  wait  till  the  bluebell  unclaspeth  her  cover, 

And  learn  how  the  secret  is  done  : 
There's  time  both  for  labor  and  play,  little  rover, 

Tis  long  to  the  setting  of  sun. 

1  laugh,  pretty  rose,  for  I  think  it  is  funny 

That  such  a  sweet  bud  of  Way 
"Will  neither  reveal,  for  the  love  nor  the  money, 

The  wisdom  it  foldeth  away  ; 
But  you'll  open  your  heart  to  me,  down  to  its  honey, 

Before  it  is  noon  of  the  day. 

You  lock  up  your  riddle  and  will  not  confess  it, 

Though  buttercups  drop  you  gold. 
It  may  be  the  gay  bobolink  will  express  it ;  — 

He  sings  what  has  never  been  told  ; 
He  may  tangle  his  song,  but  I  think  I  shall  guess  it 

Before  the  morning  is  old. 

O  dark  ribbon  river !  O  low-singing  river ! 

I'll  run  with  you  to  the  sea  ; 
For  }'ou  have  a  mystery,  too,  to  deliver ; 

I  wonder  what  it  can  be  ! 
The  dew-dropping  ferns  on  the  marge  are  a-quiver 

With  longing  to  tell  it  to  me. 

You  linger  too  long,  pretty  stream,  by  the  willow, 

You  loiter  b}-  mead  and  lea ; 
There's  a  shell' with  a  purple  lip  down  by  the  billow, 

All  filled  with  a  murmur  for  me  : 
Or  ever  I  lie  down  to  sleep  on  my  pillow, 

I'll  learn  that  song  of  the  sea. 


AUGUSTA  COOPEE  BRISTOL.  495 

THE  WEB  OF  LIFE. 

I  was  weary,  more  than  weary  on  a  sultry  summer  morning, 
As  I  filled  life's  empty  shuttle  with  duty's  iron  thread  ; 

"Though  the  sum  of  my  achievement  all  the  world  should  hold 

in  scorning, 
If  the  over-soul  approveth,  I  am  content,"  I  said. 

"If  the  over  and  the  under  and  the  inner-soul  approveth, 
The  one  encircling  unity — the  central  all-in-all, 

I  will  sing,  despite  my  faintnese,  for  the  sake  of  him  who  loveth 
The  frail  things  and  the  tender,  the  weak  things  and  the  small." 

The  golden  thread  of  human  love,  full  well  had  it  been  proven  ; 

1  never  have  forgotten  quite  the  rainbows  that  it  made  ; 
But  alas  for  all  the  failure  of  the  web  when  it  was  woven  ! 

The  shame  of  noting  day  by  da}-  the  glowing  colors  fade. 

How  my  spirit  flamed  within  me  !  In  a  grand  and  frantic  fashion, 
I  tore  the  mesh,  and  trampled  on  the  falsely  shining  thread  : 

Till  I  rose  serene  and  patient  from  the  ashes  of  my  passion, 
And  flung  the  heavy  shuttle  of  reality  instead. 

I  trifled  not  with  fancy,  and  I  dallied  not  for  beauty, 

And  faint  as  whispering  echoes  the  voice  of  pleasure  rang : 

For  me,  I  only  cared  to  hear  the  clarion  of  duty, 

And  work  my  rythmic  treadles  to  the  trumpet  song  she  sang. 

On  that  sultry  summer  morning  something  held  me  in  its  keeping, 
For  a  stupor  came  upon  me,  and  I  fancy  that  I  slept ; 

But  the  web  of  life  went  onward  in  the  dreaming  and  the  sleeping, 
And  my  weak  hands  at  the  shuttle  their  rythmic  movement  kept. 

And  I  thought  celestial  voices  murmured  down  the  ether  spaces  ; 

And  angel  wings  came  noiselessly  and  stirred  the  summer  air  ; 
And  behind  a  cloud  of  glory  were  two  loving  spirit  faces ; 

And  their  talk  with  one  another  was  a  music  sweet  and  rare. 

"She  endureth  and  is  faithful" — low  and  tenderly  they  spake  it — 
"She  endureth  and  is  patient  and  she  maketh  no  complaint ; 

She  knoweth  not  the  tapestry  she  weaveth  ;  let  us  take  it, 
And  unfold  it  to  her  vision,  for  her  spirit  groweth  faint." 

"She  prayeth  not  for  pit}',  but  her  heart  delighteth  ever 
In  the  kindly  deed  of  mercy  and  the  loving  sacrifice ; 

Then  let  us  gather  up  the  sombre  web  of  her  endeavor, 
And  in  the  true  celestial  light,  unfold  it  to  her  eyes." 

Then  soft  they  floated  downward,  and  they  spread  before  my 

vision 
The  web  that  I  had  woven,  yet  had  never  turned  to  see ; 


41)0  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


O  the  Carpers  and  the  seraphim  that  walk  the  field  elysian 
That  moment  must  have  shouted  a  song  of  praise  for  me  ! 

A  universe  alone  could  voice  7113-  triumph  and  my  gladness  ! 

For  lo  !  the  work  my  hand  had  wrought  in  heaviness  and  cold 
Was  not  a  sombre  tracery  upon  a  ground  of  sadness, 

But  beds  of  sweetest  bloom  embossed  upon  a  ground  of  gold. 

And  there  were  living  roses,  and  their  glowing  censers  swinging 
Were  filled  with  honej'-wine  embalming  all  the  summer  air ; 

And  birds  with  burnished  plumage  were  among  the  blossoms 

singing, 
And  butterflies  on  wings  of  golden  flame  were  rocking  there. 

Then  suddenly  I  wakened  with  the  rapture  and  the  wonder ; 

And  life  was  glory  !  I  had  read  the  riddle  of  its  task  ! 
For  the  gold  of  love  eternal  is  around,  above,  and  under, 

And  who  or  what  is  duty,  but  love's  angel  in  a  mask? 


WHAT  THE  ROSES  SAID. 

This  is  what  the  roses  said, 
One  transcendent  summer  morning, 
When  the  light  clouds  overhead, 
Heedless  of  my  mortal  scorning, 
Drank  the  rays  of  golden  red  ; 
When  the  wild  bird's  solemn  trill, 
Where  the  river  runneth  still, 
Filled  me  with  a  hungry  dread  ; 
When  m}'  life  no  truth  could  render 
For  the  world's  mistaken  splendor, 
When  I  thought  m}-  heart  was  dead, 
This  is  what  the  roses  said. 

"Crimson  leaf  and  pollen  gold, 

Born  of  darkness  and  the  mould, 

Every  perfect  leaf  and  fruitage 

Rises  from  a  grave-like  rootage  ; 

And  the  strong  wild  winds  that  rock  us, 

And  the  tempest  storms  that  shock  us, 

And  the  snows  upon  the  lea, — 

All  are  certain  guaranty 

Of  perfection  yet  to  be  ; 

Of  a  beauty  more  complete 

For  the  shadow  at  its  feet ; 

Greener  strength  and  fairer  bloom, 

Sweeter  breathings  of  perfume, 


LAURA  GARLAND  CARR.  497 

Deep  hearts  filled  with  richer  balm, 
May  days  more  divinely  calm, 
Fairer  Teachings  into  light, 
Firmer  growth  and  nobler  height ; 
Light  and  peace  from  shade  and  strife 
Is  the  paradox  of  life  ; 
Loving  law  and  tender  spell 
In  the  darkness  worketh  well." 

This  was  what  the  roses  said, 
Shaming  all  my  mortal  scorning, 
That  transcendent  summer  morning, 
When  I  thought  my  heart  was  dead. 


Haura  Sarlantr  OTarr, 

Mrs.  Carr  is  a  daughter  of  William  Garland,  late  of  Barnstead.  She  was  born 
in  that  town  June  27, 1835.  She  is  the  wife  of  Mr.  N.  G.  Carr  of  Concord,  where 
they  have  resided  the  past  twenty-five  years.  Writing  with  her  has  been  merely  a 
diversion  from  the  duties  of  a  very  busy  life.  Her  poetry  is  read  with  delight  as 
it  appears  from  time  to  time  in  various  newspapers  and  magazines.  She  finds  her 
inspiration  much  in  the  beauties  of  nature.  Her  numbers  are  harmonious,  and 
the  pictures  she  paints  in  imagination  are  true  to  life  and  most  pleasing.  Mrs.  Carr 
contemplates  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  her  poems  at  an  early  day  in  the  future. 


IN  THE  WOODS. 

Here  on  the  soft,  brown  leaves  I  lie, 
Deep  in  the  woodland  shade  ; 

No  bit  of  landscape  meets  my  eye, 

Nor  one  blue  gleam  from  sea  or  sky, 
Nor  glimpse  of  sunlit  glade  ; 

Rough  tree  trunks,  towering  everywhere, 

Hold  this  broad  canopy  in  air. 

Brown  branches  spread  rare  pencillings, 

Keeping  themselves  aloof; 
And  each  small  leaf  that  lightly  swings 
Its  own  bright  bit  of  beauty  brings 

To  form  the  dainty  roof; 
And  look  whichever  side  I  may, 
The  silent  arches  stretch  away. 

No  birds  !  no  wind  !  Uncertain  sounds 

Come  faintly  from  afar ; 
I  fancy  when  we  leave  earth's  bounds, 
To  walk  no  more  its  well-known  rounds, 

That  thus,  without  a  jar, 
The  murmurs  from  this  old,  loved  land 
Will  echo  on  the  heavenly  strand. 


498  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


How  near  God  is  !     I  seem  to  lie 

Within  his  courts  to-day  ; 
No  great  white  throne,  exalted  high, 
No  glittering  pageant,  passing  b}r, 

To  fill  me  with  dismay  ; 
He  walks  in  quiet  through  the  land, 
Touching  his  works  with  loving  hand. 

This  tiny  vine  close  at  my  feet, 

These  modest  tufts  of  moss 
Are  moulded  into  forms  as  neat, 
Finished  in  beauty  as  complete 

As  the  tall  trees  that  toss 
Their  branches  in  the  summer  gale, 
And  stretch  long  shadows  o'er  the  vale. 

0  spirit  of  the  woodland  shade, 
You  give  me  joy  to-day  ! 

Your  beauties  all  my  soul  invade  ; 
Your  quiet  on  my  heart  is  laid  ; 

Oh,  live  with  me,  I  pray  ! 
Let  me  still  feel  your  soothings  when 

1  tread  the  jarring  walks  of  men. 


WHAT  A  PITY ! 

They  stand  beside  the  garden  gate, 
Half  hidden  in  syringa  snow ; 
His  voice  comes  up — a  stead}'  flow 
Of  softened  bass  ;  hers  sweet  and  low, 
With  tender  trills,  like  gay  spring  birds, 
Needing  no  help  from  pros}T  words 

Her  heart's  glad  tumult  to  relate. 

The  sun  has  sunk  behind  the  trees, 
And  up  across  the  western  sky 
Its  crimson  streamers,  flaming  high 
Where  piles  of  lazy  cloudlets  lie, 
Have  set  the  fluffy  mass  on  fire, 
Drawing  all  eyes  up  to  admire  ; 

But  not  one  gleam  this  couple  sees. 

The  swallows,  leaving  shade  behind, 
Soar  up  and  up  till  each  fair  breast 
Grows  ruddy  from  the  fiery  west ; 
There,  curving,  sail  in  splendor  drest ; 


LAVE  A  GAEL  AND  CAEE.  499 

Then,  swooping  low  in  graceful  swings, 
"We  almost  feel  their  fanning  wings. 
These  young  folks  look  not.     Are  the}-  blind  ? 

Her  small  white  kitten,  full  of  pla}r, 

Climbs  up  and  pushes  'neath  her  hand, 

Accustomed  petting  to  demand  ; 

Half  wond'ring  at  the  missed  caress, 

Puss  tangles  one  long,  silken  tressr 

Plaj-s  at  the  fringes  of  her  dress — 
"Winning  no  look — then  bounds  awa}r. 

The  shadows  rise — 'tis  getting  late — 

And  meet,  half  way,  the  falling  light 

The  stars  let  down  to  cheer  the  night ; 

All  things  have  donned  a  dusk}-  hue  ; 

The  air  is  chilled  with  falling  dew ; 

Still  they  talk  on.     It  must  be  true  ; 
They're  blind — those  people  at  the  gate  ! 


THE  WOOD  THRUSH. 

When,  in  the  pleasant  summer  days, 

I  walk  through  quiet,  leafy  ways, 

From  out  the  woodland,  sweet  and  clear, 

A  wild  bird's  song  comes  to  my  ear ; 

Flute-like  and  liquid  in  its  tone, 

It  has  a  cadence  all  its  own  ; 

And  3'et,  so  plaintive  is  the  strain, 

A  loneliness,  akin  to  pain, 

Steals  o'er  the  heart,  and  fancy  brings 

Pictures  of  solitary  things  : 

Of  human  hearts,  estranged  and  lone, 

Of  loves,  that  live  and  die  unknown, 

Of  earnest  praj'ers,  pleading  to  heaven 

That  sin  stained  souls  may  be  forgiven, 

Of  lonely  isles  in  distant  seas, 

Of  waveless  lakes  'mong  forest  trees, 

Of  pale  faced  nuns  and  convent  bells, 

And  hooded  monks  in  cloistered  cells. 

O  little  bird,  does  sad  unrest 

Send  those  wild  throbbings  from  your  breast? 

Do  sun  and  stream  and  woodland  bpwer 

Ne'er  cheer  you  with  their  magic  power? 

Does  no  glad  trill  or  cheerful  note 

Stir  the  soft  plumage  of  your  throat  ? 


500  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  know  you  mate  and  build,  each  year, 
Your  tiny  nest,  and  fledglings  rear. 
You  gather  food  and  drink  each  day, 
And  pass  the  time  in  true  bird  way ; 
But  never  thus  you  seem  to  me, — 
Naught  but  a  sad,  lone  bird  I  see. 

A  GARDEN. 

Pansies  !  0  Pansies  !  you  stand  in  a  row, 
Facing  one  way  as  if  daring  a  foe  ; 
Wide  bordered  caps  'round  your  droll  faces  grow. 
Was  it  a  bee  or  bird  ?    Pray  let  me  know 
What  angered  you  so  ! 

Ha,  gladioles  !  your  banners  are  ga}', 
Flung  on  the  breezes  in  scarlet  array. 
Humming-birds  revel  among  you  all  day, 
Coming  and  going  in  glad,  happy  way. 
Winged  blossoms  are  they. 

Bachelor's-buttons  !  you're  all  bending  over, 
Linking  your  buds  with  the  fragrant  sweet-clover. 
Love-in-a-mist,  are  you  seeking  to  cover 
Your  fair  retreat  from  each  marigold  lover? 
Ah,  gold  can  discover ! 

Salvia  blooms,  you  are  flames  to  the  eye, 
Rising  and  falling  as  winds  flutter  b}-, 
Brushing  the  mallows  that  stand  coyl}r  nigh, 
Lifting  their  pink  and  white  cups  to  the  sky. 
Can  3*ou  tell  me  wh}'  ? 

Petunia  beds  are  a-flutter  with  wings 
Of  butterflies,  honey-bees,  small  flying  things ; 
Carnations  and  daisies  are  tied  up  with  strings  ; 
Verbenas  !  your  purple  might  rival  a  king's, 
Yet  to  the  ground  clings  ! 

Dahlias  and  holly-hocks,  stately  and  tall, 
Flaunt  their  broad  blooms  where  the  cool  shadows  fall ; 
Sweet-peas  and  creepers  are  climbing  the  wall, 
Scarlet-beans  twine  a  bright  line  through  them  all. 
Oh,  the  tapestried  hall ! 

Out  in  the  fountain  the  bright  waters  leap ; 
In  on  the  breezes  the  low  murmurs  creep  ; 
Where  are  the  birds,  that  so  silent  they  keep? 
Heliotrope  odors  my  dull  senses  steep. 
Is  daylight  asleep  ? 


LAURA  GARLAND  CARE.  501 

AN  APRIL  NIGHT. 

With  a  steady  rhythmic  beat, 

Like  a  thousand  fairy  feet, 
Prancing,  dancing,  all  in  time  upon  the  roof, 

Through  the  livelong  April  night, 

While  the  stars  were  out  of  sight, 
Fell  the  rain-drops,  keeping  slumbers  all  aloof. 

I  could  hear  the  jolly  rout, 

As  they  rushed  adown  the  spout, 
Then  made  off  with  noisy  splutter  to  the  drain, 

While  no  moment,  overhead, 

Ceased  that  tinkling,  airy  tread, 
In  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  rain. 

With  what  zest  the  merry  crew 

Drummed  a  rollicking  tattoo 
On  the  old  tin  pan  the  boys  had  left  in  pla}' ; 

Striving  each,  with  tiny  might, 

To  dispel  the  gloom  of  night, 
Driving  visions  of  the  midnight  far  away. 

Once  a  seeming  tearful  sob 

Set  my  pulses  all  a-throb, 
And  I  stared,  with  dim  forebodings,  through  the  room  ; 

But  a  gust  of  misty  laughter 

Breaking  up  the  sound  just  after, 
Bore  awaj"  the  dismal  fancy  none  too  soon. 

By  and  by  the  measured  flow, 

Growing  softer,  sinking  slow, 
Lulled  and  soothed  the  weary  tumult  in  my  brain ; 

Till,  half  waking,  half  asleep, 

Dream'like  scenes  around  me  creep, 
Ever  changing,  ever  blending  with  the  rain : — 

Mossy  banks  where  violets  grow — 

I  had  roamed  there  long  ago  ; — 
Bosky  dells  where  swelling  May -buds  shun  the  sight, 

Holding  close,  in  leafy  cells, 

Rosy  tints  and  woodsy  smells, 
Till  the  gentle  hands  that  love  them  bring  the  light ; 

Spreading  meadows,  green  and  low, 

Where  the  yellow  cowslips  grow  ; 
Racing  brooks  that  babble,  babble  as  they  glide, 

Sending  little  jets  of  spray, 

In  their  own  delightful  way, 
Over  everything  that  dabbles  in  their  tide. 


502  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Now  the  morn  comes  creeping  in, 

And  the  daily  cares  begin, 
While  the  baker's  bells  are  jangling  by  the  door  ; 

Clouds  and  fancies  fade  away 

In  the  stead}'  glare  of  day, 
And  the  prosy  world  moves  onward  as  before. 


A  MOUNTAIN  PASTURE. 

We  rode  for  miles  where  pleasant  farms 
In  rumpled  greenness  bound  the  way  ; 

Where,  in  October's  thousand  charms, 
The  many-tinted  woodlands  la}-. 

Where  orchard  slopes  were  carpeted 
With  shining  rounds  of  red  and  gold, 

And  shaking  branches  overhead 
The  gleaner's  hidden  presence  told  ; 

Where  pumpkins  gleamed  amid  the  corn 
That  stood  at  half-mast  in  the  fields, 

And  turke}-s  sought,  with  looks  forlorn, 
The  hopping  tribes  that  autumn  yields. 

Where  loops  of  apples  hung  to  dry, 

Or  browned  themselves  on  snowy  spreads, 

And  tipsy  squashes  leaned  awiy, 

In  mottled  heaps  'neath  sunny  sheds. 

And  then  the  road  grew  steep  apace, 
We  zig-zagged  up  the  ledgy  height, 

AVhile  backward  looks  were  turned  to  trace 
The  widening  view,  in  shifting  light. 

The  pines  gave  out  a  balmy  smell, 

And  spicy  hints  of  frost-nipped  ferns, 

From  every  bushy,  wayside  dell, 
Came  wailing  up  at  sudden  turns. 

The  path  grew  rougher  all  the  time  ; 

We  left  the  hubbl}'  public  way, 
Up  pasture  rocks  and  steeps  to  climb, 

Till  all  the  land  beneath  us  lay ; 

Green  fields  with  patches  placed  askew, 
Crossed  off  by  man}-  a  random  wall, 

With  strips  of  forest  rambling  through, 
And  flitting  shadows  over  all ; 


LAURA  GAELAND^CAEE.  503 

Small  ponds  in  sheltered  vales  reposed, 

Streams  curved  away  through  shadows  dim, 

And  where  the  eastern  vision  closed, 
The  ocean  showed  a  slender  rim. 

A  cow-bell  clanged  close  at  hand, 

A  blue  jay  scolded  just  below, 
And  lazily,  across  the  land, 

Went  sailing  by  a  cawing  crow. 

The  horses  stood,  with  manes  outshook, 

To  follow  us  with  startled  eyes  ; 
With  horned  heads  lifted  high  to  look, 

The  cattle  gazed  in  mild  surprise. 

The  spangled  junipers  outspread, 

Turning  our  eager  steps  aside  ; 
And  loose  stones  tilted  'neath  our  tread, 

While  romping  winds  our  arts  defied. 

The  district  schools,  as  we  came  down, 

Were  dining  in  the  open  air, 
Like  basket  picnickers  from  town, 

Making  bright  pictures  unaware. 


THE  WAY  TO  GRANDPA'S. 

A  well  known  path  across  the  field, 

Round  barley  lot  and  through  the  corn, 

Here  showing  clearly,  there  concealed 
By  drooping  grass,  at  dewy  morn  ! 

The  older  people  walked  straight  through, 

But  many  curves  our  young  feet  knew ! 

Out  through  the  barn  for  just  one  glance 
At  swallows  flitting  to  and  fro, 

At  queer  black  heads,  with  looks  askance, 
From  out  mud  nests  at  us  below, 

For  just  one  tumble  on  the  hay, 

Then  off,  through  back-doors,  on  our  way  ! 

Down  b}^  the  stone-heap,  framed  around 
With  raspb'ry  bushes  young  and  old, 

Just  there,  beneath  a  rock,  we  found 
A  whole  ant  city  in  the  mould ! 

'Twas  but  a  step  outside  the  way — 

We'd  not  been  there  for  one  whole  day  ! 


504  POETS  ^OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Then  over  yonder  by  the  ledge, 
The  blueb'ry  bush  that  stood  alone 

Seemed  wooing  us  with  offered  pledge 

Of  berries  ripe  and  fully  grown  ; 
»And  close  beside,  in  grassy  rest, 

We  found  a  tiny  sparrow's  nest. 

We  reached  the  stile — a  pleasant  place 
Beneath  a  spreading  maple-tree — 

And  there  we  tarried  long  to  trace 
The  wa}Tward  flight  of  bird  and  bee, 

Or  watched  the  chipmonk  rise  and  fall, 

Darting  adown  the  pasture  wall. 

The  pasture  bars — too  wide  and  high 

For  little  fingers  to  undo — 
But  many  crevices  were  nigh 

Where  little  forms  could  sidle  through. 
Beyond,  the  orchard,  darkly  green, 
While  cat-tail  flags  grew  rank  between. 

The  garden  gate, — the  garden  gate  ! 

Oh,  we  could  never  pass  it  by  ! 
There  hollyhocks  grew  tall  and  straight, 

And  sweet  red  roses  charmed  the  eye. 
There  currant  bushes,  all  aglow 
With  ripening  fruit,  were  in  a  row. 

And  just  beyond  the  low  stone  wall — 
No  sweeter  music  e'er  was  known — 

We  heard  a  brooklet's  tinkling  fall 
Along  each  moss-enveloped  stone  ; 

We  followed  on,  for  well  we  knew 

Where  fragrant  beds  of  pep'mint  grew ! 

The  house  was  reached  !  A-gleam  with  red 
The  cherry-trees  stood  round  the  door ; 

And  scolding  robins,  over  head, 
Fluttered  and  revelled  in  the  store  ; 

While  noisy  thumps  from  grandma's  loom 

Came  sounding  from  the  open  room. 


'Twas  long  ago — Oh,  long  age 

That  we  went  bounding  o'er  the  wayj 

We  have  grown  sober  paced,  and  know 
Of  man}-  changes  since  that  day  ; 

But  memory  pictures  all  so  plain, 

We  seejn  to  live  it  o'er  again. 


LAUEA  GAELAND  CAEE.  505 

SHUT  IN. 

From  the  upper  shelf,  as  I  just  now  fumbled 
'Mong  the  ancient  books  that  it  holds  in  trust, 

By  a  careless  move  this  old  reader  tumbled, 
With  its  leaves  wide  spread,  and  a  puff  of  dust. 

And  out  from  between  its  yellow  old  pages 

Something  went  scattering  over  the  floor, 
With  a  smell,  I  thought,  like  the  "dust  of  ages," 

And  a  look  like  grass  when  summer  is  o'er. 

Oh,  what  did  I  see  as  I  stooped  to  gather 
The  crumbling  leaves  to  their  places  again? 

Two  ga}-est  of  girls,  in  the  pleasant  weather, 
Walking  and  talking  in  merriest  strain  ; 

Through  the  dark-green  rowen  our  shade  hats  trailing, 
While  the  low-down  sun  blazed  up  from  the  west ; 

A  night-hawk,  booming,  above  us  was  sailing, 
With  a  golden  gleam  on  his  speckled  breast. 

We  were  talking  of — what?  Do  }'ou  remember? 

No  doubt  'twas  the  chatter  of  foolish  girls 
Whose  lives  were  as  bright  as  the  fair  September, 

Whose  hearts  were  as  light  as  the  leaf  that  twirls. 

With  a  graceful  move  you  would  oft  bend  over, 

As  the  willow  dips  to  the  river's  strand, 
And  I  saw,  each  time,  that  a  four-leafed  clover 

Was  plucked  from  its  place  by  your  dainty  hand. 

"You're  a  witch,"  I  cried,  "or  a  trained  magician ! 

Not  once  in  an  age  comes  one  to  my  view !" 
"Can  it  be,"  you  said,  "a  defect  of  vision?" 

And  bending  down  quickly,  you  picked  up  two. 

With  the  evening  dews  on  our  lengthening  tresses, 
We  slowly  went  home,  while  the  air  grew  chill ; 

And  the  drabbly  trail  of  our  muslin  dresses 
Through  our  happy  hearts  sent  a  troubled  thrill. 

Did  you  think,  as  you  pressed,  in  the  lamp's  dim  shining, 
The  velvet-green  leaves,  with  a  dreamy  look, 

That  your  own  fair  face  and  that  day's  declining 
Would  stay,  like  the  clover,  in  this  old  book? 


506  '  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


IN  THE  ORCHARD. 

Robins,  oh,  hush  !  Quit  your  tiresome  chatter  ! 

"Why  will  you  tell  each  domestic  affair  ? 
Bobolinks,  bobolinks  !     What  is  the  matter? 

Are  you  all  crazed  by  this  winey  May  air? 

Ho,  dancing  brook  !  racing  down  to  the  meadow, 

Flashing  your  silver  and  calling  to  me, 
Rushing  like  childhood  from  sunshine  to  shadow, 

Wasting  }"our  jewels  and  laughing  in  glee  ! 

Blossoms  white  !  blossoms  pink  !  tossing  and  swinging, 
Flinging  the  daintiest  fragrance  around  ! 

Oh,  }TOU  bright  blooms  !  Are  }-our  fairy  bells  ringing, 
Tolling  out  perfume  instead  of  a  sound  ? 

Honey-bees,  bumble-bees,  plunging  all  over 

Into  the  nectar !  Oh,  rapturous  sight ! 
Out  from  one's  ravished  sweet  into  another's, — 

Why  don't  you  die  of  ecstatic  delight ! 

Clouds  'neath  the  sky,  idly  floating  and  floating, 
Pause  overhead — Ah,  I  well  can  guess  wh}" — 

Each  lovely  tint  of  the  apple-trees  noting ; 

Don't  seek  to  match  them,  you.  can't  if  3*ou  try. 

Reading  the  Good  Book  I  learn  of  a  heaven 

Golden  and  gem-decked,  where  good  folks  may  stay — 

(If  this  is  sin  may  the  thought  be  forgiven) — 
Can  it  be  fair  as  this  orchard  in  May  ? 


BY  THE  RIVER. 

A  tree  bends  low,  in  humble  grace, 

To  proffer  us  a  double  seat ; 
And  from  its  restful  curve  we  trace 

The  charms  where  wood  and  river  meet. 

There's  scarce  a  ripple  on  the  stream, 
There's  scarce  a  murmur  at  its  brink  ; 

Calmly  above  the  white  clouds  dream, 
Clear,  in  its  depths,  the  shadows  sink. 

Now  here,  now  there,  a  shiner  darts, 
Breaking  its  surface  into  rings  ; 

And,  skimming  low,  a  swallow  parts 
The  gleaming  brightness  with  its  wings. 


LAUEA  GARLAND  CARE.  507 

Close  to  the  bank  the  minnows  glide 

"Where  the  dark  alders  cast  their  shade ; 
Or,  startled  by  our  steps,  they  hide 

Within  their  rootlet  ambuscade. 

• 

Jock  breaks  the  silence  with  a  leap, 

And  swims  out  in  the  cooling  tide 
Like  some  black  monster  of  the  deep, 

Flinging  off  jewels  from  each  side. 

A  many-shaded  mass  of  green 

Slopes  upward  from  the  farther  shore, 
To  where,  on  highest  bough,  serene, 

A  grave  crow  looks  the  landscape  o'er. 

A  sparrow  trills.     An  unknown  bird 

Sends  a  queer  twisted  strain  along  ; 
And  from  the  quiet  wood  is  heard 

A  far-off  veery's  lonely  song. 

Hark  !  Was  not  that  a  hum-bird's  whir  ? 

There — there  !  He's  gone,  the  flitting  sprite  ! 
The  lightest  leaflets  scarcely  stir, 

Though  brushed  and  fanned  by  his  swift  flight. 

The  earth  is  glad,  the  sky  is  calm, 

The  flashing  waters  fair  to  see  ; 
And  yet,  dear  love,  the  day's  chief  charm 

Is  that  I  share  its  sweets  with  thee. 


LIGHT. 

I  said,  one  morn,  "O  earth,  you're  dull  and  gray ! 
There  is  no  beauty  in  3-0111'  snow  and  ice, 
Nor  fancy  frost  work,  though  in  quaint  device. 

You're  cold,  oh,  cold !    You  chill  me  through  to-day." 

Lo !  as  I  looked  there  came  a  gleam  of  light, 
Straight  from  the  east.     The  icy  fringes  blazed  ; 
Colors  and  flashes  deepened  as  I  gazed, 

Till  naught  but  glory  met  my  raptured  sight. 

I  said,  one  day,  "O  life,  you're  little  worth — 
Made  up  of  toil  and  care  and  blighted  hope, 
With  pain  and  sin  and  all  their  ills  to  cope, 

The  day  of  death  is  better  than  of  birth." 

Ev'n  as  I  spoke  Love  put  a  hand  in  mine, 
And  its  dear  presence  drove  all  gloom  away, 
As  shadows  flee  before  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  life  became  a  heritage  divine. 


508  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

OFF! 

Each  winter  sprite  is  in  a  fright, 
I  heard  them  talking  in  the  night. 
Tlfeir  voices  thin  piped  drolly  in 
Through  pauses  in  the  March  wind's  din  ; 
While  soft  and  low  the  melting  snow 
From  cottage  eaves  drip  dropped  below. 

"Ho,  elves  and  sprites  that  delve  in  snow  and  ice ! 
There's  something  creeping  up  the  southern  hills, 
Along  the  air  ;  I  feel  its  melting  thrills  ; 

To  sleep  and  death  these  lulling  calls  entice. 

Let  us  awa}' ! 

"I  hear  the  sap  low  pulsing  in  the  trees ; 

The  rootlets  stir  uneas}'  in  the  ground  ; 

Sounds,  low  and  restless,  come  from  all  around, 
And  spring-like  murmurs  laden  every  breeze. 

Let  us  away ! 

"The  streams -are  turning  in  their  winter  beds, 
Rending  the  sheets  with  which  we  tucked  them  in  ; 
The  woodpecker  and  all  his  noisy  kin 

Drum  up  the  bugs,  with  scarlet  crested  heads. 

Let  us  away  ! 

"These  fickle  people,  who  oft  gave  their  praise 
To  dainty  marvels  that  our  fingers  wrought, 
Heed  us  no  more.  Their  fancies  all  are  bought 

By  the  soft  nonsense  of  spring's  coming  fays. 

Let  us  away !" 

Then  the  low  sound  of  winds  around 

Grew  loud  and  fierce.     All  words  were  drowned  ; 

With  dull  refrain,  against  the  pane, 

The  melting  snow  was  dashed  like  rain  ; 

The  windows  clanged,  the  shutters  banged, 

The  shrieking  clothes-reel  whirled  and  whanged ; 

Then  all  was  still,  while  clear  and  shrill 

New  voices  came  the  pause  to  fill. 

"We-  are  off  for  the  frozen  zone ! 
To  a  countr}'  that's  all  our  own, 

Where  the  snow  sparkles  white 

'Neath  the  gay  northern  light, 
And  the  winds  have  a  rollicking  tone  ! 


LAURA  GARLAND  CARE.  5Q9 

"In  that  beautiful  region  afar, 
Right  under  the  famed  polar  star, 

Where  the  dull  Esquimau 

Builds  his  queer  hut  of  snow, 
We  will  laugh  out  our  merry  ha  !  ha  ! 

"We  know  where  the  eider  ducks  swim 
Close  up  to  the  world's  upper  brim, 

Where  the  whales  spout  and  play 

In  a  wonderful  way, 
And  the  icebergs  sail  stately  and  grim. 

"We'll  dance  on  each  glittering  peak 
That  echoes  the  sea-eagle's  shriek  ; 

And  the  huge  polar  bear 

We  will  seek  in  his  lair 
And  ride  on  his  back  for  a  freak. 

"Oh  ho,  like  the  wild  birds  we'll  fly, 
Nor  breathe  out  one  whimpering  sigh. 

In  that  land  far  away 

For  a  while  we  will  stay, 
But  we  shall  come  back  by  and  by." 

Again  the  sound  of  winds  around 
Grew  loud  and  fierce.     Along  the  ground, 
With  motions  fleet,  like  dancing  feet, 
There  seemed  a  rushing  through  the  street. 
Then  all  was  still  and  calm  until 
The  rosy  morn  peeped  o'er  the  hill. 


A  LANE. 

Caverns  of  apple  boughs,  frescoed  with  bloom, 
Folding  you  close  in  a  dainty  perfume  ; 
Half  a  score  bobolinks,  crazy  as  loons, 
Giving  you  scraps  of  a  hundred  glad  tunes  ; 
Orioles,  rolling  out  tones  of  delight, 
Shaking  the  leaves  as  they  flash  through  the  white  ; 
Cat-birds  a-mocking  from  over  the  wall, 
Making  the  alders  resound  at  each  call ; 
Buzzing  old  bees  that  turn  work  into  play, 
Canning  up  sweets  for  some  dull  winter  day  ; 
Soft,  dripping  waters  the  log  trough  o'erflow, 
Dark'ning  the  mosses  close  crowded  below  ; 
Wondering  cows,  looking  up  as  they  drink, 


510  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Plashing  its  brightness  across  the  low  brink  ; 
Sweet  growing  things  creeping  up  to  the  sight ; 
Fair,  flying  creatures  too  gay  to  alight ; 
Far-away  glints  of  a  cowslip-flecked  green, 
When  the  boughs  sway,  come  like  visions  between. 
Winding  and  turning,  you  follow  the  lane, 
Flickering  sunbeams  a-falling  like  rain. 
Where  are  you  wandering?     Never  you  heed. 
When  ways  are  pleasant,  why  ask  where  the}*  lead  ? 


Mrs.  Wheeler,  of  Pittsfleld,  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  William  Garland  of  Barn- 
stead.  She  is  the  wife  of  Dr.  John  Wheeler.  Her  poetry,  like  that  of  her  sister, 
Sirs.  Laura  Garland  Carr,  is  of  a  high  order  and  very  beautiful. 


APPLE  BLOOMS. 

A  child  went  bounding  through  the  rooms 

And  left  a  door  ajar, 
Through  which  a  smell  of  apple  blooms 

Came  wafted  from  afar. 

A  cabinet  long  locked  from  me, 

Within  this  soul  of  mine, 
Sprang  open,  without  hand  or  ke}T, 

At  that  sweet  countersign  ; 

And  many  a  quaint  memento  there, 

With  scraps  of  old  delight, 
Forgotten  songs  and  pictures  rare, 

Surprised  my  inward  sight. 

A  bunch  of  violets,  white  and  blue, 

A  brook  with  grass}'  brink, 
The  sound  of  waters  tangled  through 

With  notes  of  bobolink  ; 

A  shadow  on  the  grass  below, 

A  blackbird's  scream  above ; 
Hope-bubbles,  burst  so  long  ago, 

And  morning  dreams  of  love. 

With  curious  eyes  I  turned  them  o'er, 

Till  others  sought  my  room  ; 
Then  shut  them  all  away  once  more 

Close-locked  to  apple  bloom. 


MARY  H.   WHEELEE.  511 

SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

I  sat  at  my  window  and  listened, 

At  the  close  of  a  summer  da}', 
To  the  soothing  strains  of  music 

In  the  church  across  the  way. 

The  solemn  tones  of  the  organ 

Came  swelling  upon  the  breeze, 
Then  floated  away  into  silence, 

Like  the  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

Then  a  single  voice  rose  softly, 

And  its  pleading  was  like  a  prayer, 
And  my  heart  went  forth  to  join  it, 

As  it  throbbed  through  the  evening  air. 

Grandly  the  swelling  voices 

"Were  blent  in  the  chorus,  and  then 
A  far-off  whispering  echo 

Repeated  its  soft  "amen." 

It  came  like  a  benediction 

At  the  close  of  the  summer  day, 
And  I  thanked  God  for  the  music 

In  the  church  across  the  way. 


A  SERENADE. 

When  the  dim  twilight  with  evening  was  blending, 

Wearity  sought  I  my  dream-haunted  bed, 
Hoping  kind  sleep,  in  the  darkness  descending, 

Softl}T  might  soothe  the  dull  pain  in  my  head  ; 
Was  I  but  dozing,  or  had  I  been  sleeping, 

When  the  soft  prelude  so  sweetly  was  played  ? 
Under  my  window,  all  silently  creeping, 
Somebody  sang  me  a  sweet  serenade : 
"All  is  still,  all  is  still, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill 
Sings  to  thee,  sings  to  thee,  sings  to  thee." 

Over  the  hill-tops  the  slow  moon  was  creeping, 
While  the  pale  stars  twinkled  on  ever  bright ; 

In  at  my  window  the  woodbine  was  peeping, 
Shining  with  dew-drops — the  gems  of  the  night. 

Silently  stood  the  old  wind-attuned  willow, 
Never  a  breeze  bore  its  whispers  along ; 


512  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Lying  at  ease  on  the  rest-giving  pillow 

I  saw  not  the1  feinger,  I  heard  but  the  song : 
"Night  is  still,  night  is  still, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill 
Sings  to  thee,  sings  to  thee,  sings  to  thee." 

Quickly  all  fears  and  all  phantoms  of  sorrow, 

All  the  vexations  and  cares  of  the  day, 
All  the  forebodings  that  shadowed  the  morrow, 

Spread  their  dark  pinions  and  floated  away. 
Thankful  to  Him  whose  kind  love,  never  ending, 
Formed  earth  in  beauty  and  gave  eyes  to  see ; 
Tears  of  sweet  gratitude,  softly  descending, 
Answered  the  song  one  was  singing  to  me  : 
"Sleeping  still?  sleeping  still ? 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill 
Sings  to  thee,  sings  to  thee,  sings  to  thee." 


A  PLEA. 

They  tell  us  that  our  Granite  State, 

With  climate  cold  and  stern, 
Where  sullen  winter  lingers  late 

And  hastens  his  return, 
Its  stubborn  and  unfertile  soil 

With  rocks  and  stones  replete, 
But  half  repays  the  farmer's  toil, 

In  crops  of  corn  and  wheat. 

They  point  us  to  the  prairied  west, 

Where  rich,  exhaustless  lands 
Are  with  luxuriant  verdure  dressed, 

Untilled  by  toiling  hands. 
They  tell  us  of  vast  fields  of  grain 

That  need  but  to  be  sown, 
And  neck-high  grasses  on  the  plain, 

But  waiting  to  be  mown. 

And  if  the  one  aim  of  our  days 

Were,  with  least  work  and  care, 
The  largest  crops  of  grain  to  raise, 

'Twere  well  to  hasten  there  ; 
To  leave  New  England's  stony  lands, 

The  fields  our  fathers  blest, 
Our  churches,  schools  and  household  bands, 

For  prairies  of  the  west. 


MARY  H.   WHEELER.  513 

But  industry  and  enterprise 

And  self-denying  toil, 
Contrivance,  which  man  here  applies 

In  conquering  the  soil, 
Make  conquest  of  far  more  than  land 

In  strength  and  manliness  ; 
While  mountain  landscapes,  bold  and  grand* 

The  character  impress. 

And  in  our  winters,  long  and  cold, 

That  chain  us  half  the  year, 
Affection's  warmer  depths  unfold, 

And  home  becomes  more  dear. 
Then  let  the  west  produce  its  grain, 

The  boast  of  tongue  and  pen, 
The  south  its  cotton  and  its  cane, 

New  Hampshire  raises  men. 


MY  GRANDMA'S  LOOM. 

Coming  from  school  by  the  summer  path, 

Across  the  pasture  ledge, 
And  the  clover  field,  in  aftermath, 

Beyond  the  alder  hedge, 
From  the  hill  I  heard  the  merry  sound 

Of  flails  on  the  threshing  floor, 
And  running  on,  with  a  skip  and  bound, 

Was  soon  at  grandpa's  door. 
Away  went  my  dinner-pail,  with  a  jump 

I  hurried  across  the  room, 
And  up  the  stairs  to  the  rattle  and  thump 

Of  grandma's  busy  loom. 

Back  and  forth  the  shuttle  flew, 

And  the  woof  was  beaten  in, 
And  the  figures  on  the  fabric  grew 

To  the  changing  treadle's  din. 
To  right  and  left  my  grandma  bent, 

And  the  shuttle  straight  she  threw, 
Which  seemed,  as  I  looked  with  eyes  intent, 

An  easy  thing  to  do. 
And  I  thought  if  I  had  but  a  loom  of  my  own- 

A  play -loom  that  would  go, 
In  my  play-house,  I  would  weave  alone 

A  web  all  as  white  as  snow. 


514  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  then  I  bad  a  loom  of  my  own, 

A  play-loom  all  complete, 
And  up  and  down  the  threads  were  thrown 

As  I  changed  my  little  feet. 
And  oh,  such  a  wondrous  web  there  grew 

As  was  never  seen  before, 
With  pictures  of  grain  and  grandpa,  too, 

And  the  flails  and  the  threshing-floor, 
A  boy  and  girl  in  a  grove  at  play, 

A  field  and  a  flock  of  sheep  ; 
And  then  I  heard  my  grandma  say, 

"Why,  the  child  is  fast  asleep  !" 

That  was  a  dream  but  since  years  have  flown, 

Again  I  think  I  can  see 
That  there  was  indeed  a  loom  of  my  own, 

And  weaving  a  web  for  me. 
My  grandma  sits  at  her  loom  no  more, 

Her  hands  have  long  been  still, 
And  no  sound  comes  from  the  threshing  floor 

As  I  wander  on  the  hill, 
But  some  passing  breeze  doth  to-day  unfold 

My  web  of  life,  to  show 
This  scene  which  was  woven  in  threads  of  gold 

In  the  years  so  long  ago. 


DIGGING  FOR  GOLD. 

I  remember  a  story — perhaps  it  is  old, 

But  a  story  that's  good  may  be  often  retold — 

Of  a  farmer  who  farmed  in  an  old  routine  way, 

And  was  always  repeating,  "Oh,  farming  don't  pay  !" 

Now  this  farmer  had  listened  to  stories,  once  told, 
Of  the  finding  of  treasure  and  long  buried  gold, 
Till  farming  was  irksome,  and  nothing  would  do 
But  he  must  be  finding  a  pot  of  gold,  too. 

And  he  soon  got  to  poking  and  grubbing  around 

Old  wells  and  old  ruins  and  holes  in  the  ground ; 

So  his  fields  were  neglected  there  year  after  year, 

And  the  neighbors  all  said  Farmer  Tornpkins  was  queer. 

But  one  morning  he  came  from  his  chamber  in  glee, 
And  sat  down  to  breakfast  as  ga}'  as  could  be, 
And  he  said  to  his  wife,  "Well,  the  treasure  is  found ; 
I  have  only  to  dig  it  up  out  of  the  ground." 


MART  H.   WHEELEE.  515 


"Where  !  where  ?"  cried  his  wife.  "lu  the  orchard,"  said  he  ; 
"I  have  dreamed  it  all  out — it  is  under  a  tree, 
A  brown  earthern  pot  that  is  mouldy  and  old, 
And  filled  to  the  brim  with  red  guineas  of  gold." 

They  breakfasted  lightly,  nor  longer  delayed, 
But  rushed  to  the  orchard  with  pickaxe  and  spade  ; 
His  wife  called  out  briskly,  "Now  which  is  the  tree?" 
He  scratched  his  wise  head — "Blest  if  I  know,"  said  he. 

"I  thought  I  should  know  it,"  he  hastened  to  sa}- ; 
"We  must  dig  till  we  find  it ;  there's  no  other  waj-." 
But  his  wife  was  disheartened,  for,  little  and  big, 
There  were  two  hundred  trees  under  which  they  might  dig. 

Then  down  went  the  pickaxe  and  up  came  the  soil, 
"Save  the  roots,"  cried  his  wife,  "or  the  trees  }-ou  will  spoil !' 
"Let  them  go,"  said  the  farmer,  "  'tis  little  they  bear," 
But  as  he  dug  deeper  he  gave  them  more  care. 

From  morning  till  evening  he  delved  with  a  will, 
And  the  next  setting  sun  found  him  digging  there  still ; 
And  the  neighbors  who  soon  had  got  wind  of  the  matter, 
Came  watching  around  him  with  unwelcome  clatter. 

And  so  week  after  week  he  kept  heaping  up  mould, 
Till  the  trees  were  all  circled,  but  no  pot  of  gold  ; 
Then  the  neighbors  with  jests  and  with  jibes  made  it  jolly, 
And  the  orchard— they  called  it  "Old  Tompkius'  folly." 

Now  the  months  rolled  away  and  the  spring  came  about, 
And  the  leaves  and  the  blossoms  were  all  coming  out ; 
When  the  song  of  the  robin  was  loud  on  the  breeze, 
Then  our  farmer's  wife  called  him  to  look  at  his  trees. 

Such  a  burden  of  bloom  had  ne'er  gladdened  his  eye, 
Yet  he  turned  from  the  view  with  a  crestfallen  sigh  ; 
But  the  pink  petals  fell  and  the  green  apples  grew, 
Such  a  wonderful  yield  that  the  neighbors  looked,  too. 

By  August  our  farmer  so  busy  was  found, 
Propping  fruit-laden  branches  that  drooped  to  the  ground, 
That  his  whim  was  forgotten — he  never  once  thought 
To  look  for  the  treasure  which  lately  he  sought. 

But  by  and  by,  when  the  nice  apples  were  sold, 
He  remembered  again  how  he  dreamed  of  the  gold  ; 
And  he  said,  "Though  this  tillage  is  wearisome  toil, 
There  is  gold  for  the  digging  in  most  any  soil." 


5 1 C  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

WAR-SONG  OF  KANCAMAGUS. 

(June,  1689.) 

At  the  old  fort  in  Pennacook 

The  Indian  sachems  met, 
An  insult  had  been  given 

Which  no  red  man  could  forget. 
Sir  Edmund  had  attacked  their  friend 

And  plundered  without  law, 
And  in  the  solemn  council 

Each  voice  had  been  for  war. 

Ignoring  former  treaties, — 
'       Which  their  allies  ne'er  sustained — 
Of  slight,  and  fraud,  and  falsehood, 

And  unfairness,  they  complained. 
Their  mutual  accusations 

Made  a  list  both  dark  and  long ; 
And  each  could  well  of  insult  tell, 

And  individual  wrong. 

The  council  had  declared  for  war, 

And  formal  invitation 
Had  been  to  all  the  warriors  given, 

According  to  their  station. 
And  now  in  circles  seated, 

With  the  chiefs  and  braves  within, 
The  stern-faced  red  men  waited 

For  the  war-dance  to  begin, 

Then  up  rose  Kancamagus, 

And  ferocious  was  his  air ; 
High  up  he  swung  his  hatchet, 

And  his  brawny  arm  was  bare ; 
The  eagle's  feather  trembled 

In  his  scalp-lock  as  he  sang, 
And  far  across  the  Merrimack 

The  Indian's  war-song  rang. 

"War !  War !  Lift  up  the  hatchet ! 

Bring  scalping  knife  and  gun, 
And  give  no  rest  to  foot  or  breast 

Till  warfare  is  begun  ! 
Look  where  the  braves  are  gathered 

Like  the  clouds  before  a  flood  ! 
And  Kancamagus'  tomahawk 

Is  all  athirst  for  blood  ! 


MARY  H.   WHEELER.  517 

My  fathers  fought  the  Tarratines, 

And  the  Mohawks  fierce  and  strong, 
And  ever  on  the  war-path 

Their  whoop  was  loud  and  long. 
And  Kaneamagus'  daring, 

And  feats  of  vengeance  bold, 
Among  the  Amariscoggins 

Have  been  full  often  told. 


Will  the  warrior's  arm  be  weaker, 

And  will  his  courage  fail, 
When  in  grounds  well  known  he  shall  strike  for  his  own, 

And  his  people's  foe  assail  ? 
Will  the  son  of  Nanamocomuck 

Stand  trembling,  like  a  squaw, 
When  the  sagamores  around  him 

Are  all  hungering  for  war? 

War  !  War !  The  foe  are  sleeping, 

And  the  scent  of  blood  is  sweet, 
And  the  woods  about  Cocheco 

Await  the  warrior's  feet ! 
From  silent  ambush  stealing, 

We  will  capture,  slay  and  burn, 
Till  those  plundering,  cheating  English 

Shall  the  red  man's  vengeance  learu  ! 

Their  chiefs  about  Piscataqua 

Refused  my  proffered  hand  ; 
The  bad  whites  at  Cocheco 

By  treachery  took  our  band, 
They  have  treated  us  like  reptiles, 

But  the  red  man's  day  is  nigh : 
On  Kaneamagus'  wigwam  pole 

Their  bloody  scalps  may  dry  ! 

I  am  eager  as  the  hunter 

When  the  fleet  deer  is  in  sight, 
And  the  arrows  in  my  quiver 
•  Are  all  trembling  for  the  flight ! 
War !  War !  Lift  up  the  hatchet ! 

Bring  the  scalping-knife  and  gun  ! 
The  shade  of  Nanamocomuck 

Shall  glory  in  his  son  ! 


518  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

SONG  OF  THE  FROG. 

Brothers,  brothers  in  the  mire, 
Long-tailed  tadpoles,  frogs  entire, 
Come  up  from  the  mud  below  ! 
Hark,  again  the  waters  flow  ! 
Hibernating  da}"s  are  o'er, 
We  may  swim  and  sing  once  more. 

Brothers,  brothers,  hear  my  call ! 
Come  up  quickly,  one  and  all ! 
On  the  banks  of  pools  o'erflowing, 
Green,  oh !  green  the  reeds  are  growing, 
And  the  zoospores,  set  free, 
Whirl  around  and  round  with  glee. 

Brothers,  lo  !  the  da}Ts  are  long, 
Time  it  is  to  raise  our  song ! 
Twilight,  ling'ring  in  the  bogs, 
Listens  for  the  voice  of  frogs. 
Shall  fair  Spring  commence  her  reign 
Unannounced  by  our  refrain? 

Brothers,  of  Batrachian  race, 

From  great  sires  our  blood  we  trace  ! 

But  alas  !  for  glory  gone 

With  the  labyrinthodon  ! 

Ah  !  his  singing  was  no  joke, 

Now  we  only  croak  and  croak. 

Brothers,  brothers,  our  hearts  still 
Feel  the  great  ancestral  thrill ! 
This  is  wh}r  in  our  veins  flow 
Blood  discs  of  such  size,  you  know. 
But  the  fugue  we  sing  so  late, 
Is  for  race  degenerate. 


<£dta  Barter. 


Mrs.  Thuxter  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  June  29,  183o.  She  passed  the  greater 
part  of  her  early  life  upon  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  She  published  in  the  Atiantio 
Monthly,  in  18(!7"-<>8,  a  series  of  papers  upon  these  islands  which  were  of  great 
interest  and  value.  In  1872  she  published  a  volume  of  poems  which  has  met  with  a 
large  sale,  and  another  volume  has  since  then  been  published.  The  range  of  her 
p»cms  is  confined  to  the  sea  and  its  shores,  so  that  they  are  lacking  in  the  variety 
of  scenery,  of  thought,  and  of  sentiment,  which  we  admire  in  some  other  authors. 
But  on  the  solitary  coast,  in  view  of  the  sea,  with  its  changeful  skies,  its  distant 
ships,  and  its  white-winged  sea  birds,  she  is  emphatically  the  most  picturesque  of 
poets  and  the  subtilest  of  ideal  colorists.  Her  verses  have  the  very  swing  of  the 
sea.  As  we  read  we  feel  its  cool  breath,  we  perceive  its  delicate  scent,  and  we  hear 
the  ripple  of  the  waves  and  the  soft  rote  on  the  pebbly  beach. 


GELIA  THAXTEE.  519 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS. 
I  lit  the  lamps  in  the  light-house  tower, 

For  the  sun  dropped  down  and  the  day  was  dead, 
They  shone  like  a  glorious  clustered  flower, — 

Ten  golden  and  five  red. 

Looking  across,  where  the  line  of  coast 
Stretched  darkly,  shrinking  away  from  the  sea, 

The  lights  sprang  out  at  its  edge, — almost 
They  seemed  to  answer  me  ! 

O  warning  lights,  burn  bright  and  clear ! 

Hither  the  storm  comes  !  Leagues  away 
It  moans  and  thunders  low  and  drear, — 

Burn  till  the  break  of  day  ! 

Good  night !  I  called  to  the  gulls  that  sailed 

Slow  past  me  through  the  evening  sky  ; 
And  my  comrades,  answering  shrilly,  hailed 

Me  back  with  boding  cry. 

A  mournful  breeze  began  to  blow. 

Weird  music  it  drew  through  the  iron  bars, 
The  sullen  billows  boiled  below, 

And  dimly  peered  the  stars  ; 

The  sails  that  flecked  the  ocean  floor 

From  east  to  west  leaned  low  and  fled  ; 
They  knew  what  came  in  the  distant  roar 

That  filled  the  air  with  dread  ! 

Flung  by  a  fitful  gust,  there  beat 

Against  the  window  a  dash  of  rain  : — • 
Steady  as  tramp  of  marching  feet 

Strode  on  the  hurricane. 

It  smote  the  waves  for  a  moment  still, 

Level  and  deadly  white  for  fear  ; 
The  bare  rock  shuddered, — an  awful  thrill 

Shook  even  my  tower  of  cheer. 

Like  all  the  demons  loosed  at  last, 

Whistling  and  shrieking,  wild  and  wide, 
The  mad  wind  raged,  while  strong  and  fast 

Rolled  in  the  rising  tide. 

And  soon  in  ponderous  showers,  the  spray, 
Struck  from  the  granite,  reared  and  sprung 

And  clutched  at  tower  and  cottage  gray, 
Where  overwhelmed  they  clung 


520  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Half  drowning  to  the  naked  rock  ; 

But  still  burned  on  the  faithful  light, 
Nor  faltered  at  the  tempest's  shock, 

Through  all  the  fearful  night. 

Was  it  in  vain?  That  knew  not  we. 

We  seemed,  in  that  confusion  vast 
Of  rushing  wind  and  roaring  sea, 

One  point  whereon  was  cast 

The  whole  Atlantic's  weight  of  brine. 

Heaven  help  the  ship  should  drift  our  way  ! 
No  matter  how  the  light  might  shine 

Far  on  into  the  day. 

When  morning  dawned,  above  the  din 
Of  gale  and  breaker  boomed  a  gun  ! 

Another  !  We  who  sat  within 
Answered  with  cries  each  one. 

Into  each  other's  eyes,  with  fear, 

We  looked  through  helpless  tears,  as  still, 

One  after  one,  near  and  more  near, 
The  signals  pealed,  until 

The  thick  storm  seemed  to  break  apart 
To  show  us,  staggering  to  her  grave, 

The  fated  brig.     We  had  no  heart 
To  look,  for  naught  could  save. 

One  glimpse  of  black  hull  heaving  slow, 
Then  closed  the  mists,  o'er  canvas  torn 

And  tangled  ropes  swept  to  and  fro 
From  masts  that  raked  forlorn. 

Weeks  after,  yet  ringed  round  with  spray, 
Our  island  lay,  and  none  might  land ; 

Though  blue  the  waters  of  the  bay 
Stretched  calm  on  either  hand. 

And  when,  at  last,  from  the  distant  shore 

A  little  boat  stole  out  to  reach 
Our  loneliness,  and  bring  once  more 
»  Fresh  human  thought  and  speech, 

We  told  our  tale,  and  the  boatmen  cried  : 
"  'Twas  the  Pocahontas, — all  were  lost ! 

For  miles  along  the  coast  the  tide 
Her  shattered  timbers  tossed." 


CELIA  THAXTEE.  521 

Then  I  looked  the  whole  horizon  round, — 

So  beautiful  the  ocean  spread 
About  us,  o'er  those  sailors  drowned  ! 

"Father  in  heaven,"  I  said, — 

A  child's  grief  struggling  in  my  breast, — 

"Do  purposeless  thy  children  meet 
Such  bitter  death  ?  How  was  it  best 

These  hearts  should  cease  to  beat? 

O  wherefore  !     Are  we  naught  to  Thee  ? 

Like  senseless  weeds  that  rise  and  fall 
Upon  thine  awful  sea,  are  we 

No  more  then,  after  all?" 

And  I  shut  the  beauty  from  my  sight, 
For  I  thought  of  the  dead  that  lay  below ; 

From  the  bright  air  faded  the  warmth  and  light, 
There  came  a  chill  like  snow.     • 

Then  I  heard  the  far-off  rote  resound, 
.    Where  the  breakers  slow  and  slumberous  rolled, 
And  a  subtle  sense  of  Thought  profound 
Touched  me  with  power  untold. 

And  like  a  voice  eternal  spake 

That  wondrous  rhythm,  and,  "Peace  be  still !" 
It  murmured,  "bow  thy  head  and  take 

Life's  rapture  and  life's  ill, 

And  wait.     At  last  all  shall  be  clear." 

The  long,  low,  mellow  music  rose 
And  fell,  and  soothed  my  dreaming  ear 

With  infinite  repose. 

Sighing  I  climbed  the  light-house  stair, 

Half  forgetting  my  grief  and  pain  ; 
And  while  the  da}1  died,  sweet  and  fair, 

I  lit  the  lamps  again. 


A  TRYST. 

From  out  the  desolation  of  the  north 

An  iceberg  took  its  way, 
From  its  detaining  comrades  breaking  forth, 

And  travelling  night  and  day. 

At  whose  command  ?    Who  bade  it  sail  the  deep 
With  that  resistless  force  ? 


522  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Who  made  the  dread  appointment  it  must  keep  ? 
Who  traced  its  awful  course? 

To  the  warm  airs  that  stir  in  the  sweet  south, 

A  good  ship  spread  her  sails  ; 
Stately  she  passed  beyond  the  harbor's  mouth 

Chased  by  the  favoring  gales  ; 

And  on  her  ample  decks  a  happy  crowd 

Bade  the  fair  land  good-b}- ; 
Clear  shone  the  day,  with  not  a  single  cloud 

In  all  the  peaceful  sky, 

Brave  men,  sweet  women,  little  children  bright, 

For  all  these  she  made  room, 
And  with  her  freight  of  beauty  and  delight 

She  went  to  meet  her  doom. 

Storms  buffeted  the  iceberg,  spray  was  swept 

Across  its  loftiest  height ; 
Guided  alike  by  storm  and  calm,  it  kept 

Its  fatal  path  aright. 

Then  warmer  waves  gnawed  at  its  crumbling  base, 

As  if  in  piteous  plea ; 
The  ardent  sun  sent  slow  tears  down  its  face, 

Soft  flowing  to  the  sea. 

Dawn  kissed  it  with  her  tender  rose  tints,  Eve 

Bathed  it  in  violet, 
The  wistful  color  o'er  it  seemed  to  grieve 

With  a  divine  regret. 

Whether  Day  clad  its  clefts  in  rainbows  dim 

And  shadowy  as  a  dream, 
Or  Night  through  lonely  spaces  saw  it  swim 

White  in  the  moonlight's  gleam, 

Ever  Death  rode  upon  its  solemn  heights, 

Ever  his  watch  he  kept ; 
Cold  at  its  heart  through  changing  days  and  nights 

Its  changeless  purpose  slept. 

And  where  afar  a  smiling  coast  it  passed, 

Straightway  the  air  grew  chill ; 
Dwellers  thereon  perceived  a  bitter  blast, 

A  vague  report  of  ill. 

Like  some  imperial  creature,  moving  slow, 
Meanwhile,  with  matchless  grace, 


CELIA  THAXTEK.  523 

The  stately  ship,  unconscious  of  her  foe, 
Drew  near  the  trysting  place. 

For  still  the  prosperous  breezes  followed  her, 

And  half  the  voyage  was  o'er ; 
In  many  a  breast  glad  thoughts  began  to  stir 

Of  lands  that  lay  before. 

And  human  hearts  with  longing  love  were  dumb, 

That  soon  should  cease  to  beat, 
Thrilled  with  the  hope  of  meetings  soon  to  come, 

And  lost  in  memories  sweet. 

• 
Was  not  the  weltering  waste  of  water  wide 

Enough  for  both  to  sail  ? 
"What  drew  the  two  together  o'er  the  tide, 

Fair  ship  and  iceberg  pale  ? 

There  came  a  night  with  neither  moon  nor  star, 

Clouds  draped  the  sky  in  black  ; 
With  fluttering  canvas  reefed  at  every  spar, 

And  weird  fire  in  her  track, 

The  ship  swept  on ;  a  wild  wind  gathering  fast 

Drove  her  at  utmost  speed.  .- 

Bravely  she  bent  before  the  fitful  blast 

That  shook  her  like  a  reed. 

O  helmsman,  turn  thy  wheel !     Will  no  surmise 

Cleave  through  the  midnight  drear? 
No  warning  of  the  horrible  surprise 

Reach  thine  unconscious  ear  ? 

She  rushed  upon  her  ruin.     Not  a  flash 

Broke  up  the  waiting  dark  ; 
Dully  through  wind  and  sea  one  awful  crash 

Sounded,  with  none  to  mark. 

Scarcely  her  crew  had  time  to  clutch  despair, 

So  swift  the  work  was  done  : 
Ere  their  pale  lips  could  frame  a  speechless  praj'er, 

They  perished,  every  one  ! 


SORROW. 

Upon  my  lips  she  laid  her  touch  divine, 

And  merry  speech  and  careless  laughter  died  ; 

She  fixed  her  melancholy  eyes  on  mine, 
And  would  not  be  denied. 


f>24  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


I  saw  the  west-wind  loose  his  cloudlets  white 
In  flocks,  careering  through  the  April  sky, 

I  could  not  sing,  though  joy  was  at  its  height, 
For  she  stood  silent  by. 

I  watched  the  lovely  evening  fade  away  ; 

A  mist  was  lightly  drawn  across  the  stars ; 
She  broke  my  quiet  dream,  I  heard  her  say 

"Behold  your  prison  bars  ! 

"Earth's  gladness  shall  not  satisfy  your  soul, 
This  beauty  of  the  world  in  which  3-011  live, 

The  crowning  grace  that  sanctifies  the  whole, 
That,  I  alone  can  give." 

I  heard  and  shrank  away  from  her  afraid, 
But  still  she  held  me  and  would  still  abide ; 

Youth's  bounding  pulses  slackened  and  obeyed, 
With  slowly  ebbing  tide. 

"Look  thou  beyond  the  evening  star,"  she  said, 
"Beyond  the  changing  splendors  of  the  da}- ; 

Accept  the  pain,  the  weariness,  the  dread, 
Accept  and  bid  me  stay !" 

I  turned  and  clasped  her  close  with  sudden  strength, 
And  slowty,  sweetly,  I  became  aware 

Within  ni3'  arms  God's  angel  stood  at  length, 
White-robed  and  calm  and  fair. 

And  now  I  look  beyond  the  evening-  star, 
Be3'ond  the  changing  splendors  of  the  day, 

Knowing  the  pain  He  sends  more  precious  far, 
More  beautiful,  than  the}-. 


EatQljton. 

Oscar  Laighton  has  lived  all  his  life  thus  far  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  having  been 
brought  up  with  his  sister,  Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter,  at  White  Island,  when-  their  father 
kept  a  light-house.  He  was  sixteen  years  old  before  lie  visited  the  niitinland.  For 
many  years  he  and  his  brother  have  kept  the  Appledore  House  011  Appledore  Island. 


SONG. 

The  clover  blossoms  kiss  her  feet, 

She  is  so  sweet. 

While  I,  who  ma}'  not  kiss  her  hand, 
Bless  all  the  wild  (lowers  in  the  laud. 


OSCAR  LAIGHTON. 


Soft  sunshine  falls  across  her  breast, 

She  is  so  blest. 

I'm  jealous  of  its  arms  of  gold, 
O  that  these  arms  her  form  might  fold  ! 

Gently  the  breezes  kiss  her  hair, 

She  is  so  fair. 

Let  flowers  and  sun  and  breeze  go  by, — 
O  dearest !  Love  me  or  I  die. 


SONG. 

Sweet  wind  that  blows  o'er  sunny  isles 

The  softness  of  the  sea, 
Blow  thou  across  these  moving  miles 

News  of  my  love  to  me. 

Ripples  her  hair  like  waves  that  sweep 

About  this  pleasant  shore  ; 
Her  eyes  are  bluer  than  the  deep 

Round  rocky  Appledore. 

Her  sweet  breast  shames  the  scattered  spray 

Soft  kissed  by  early  light : 
I  dream  she  is  the  dawn  of  day 

That  lifts  me  out  of  night ! 


AT  SUNSET. 

Come  thou  with  me,  dear  love,  and  see  the  day 
Die  on  the  sea,  and  o'er  the  distant  land 

This  last  faint  glow  of  twilight  fade  away, 
The  while  I  hold  in  mine  thy  gentle  hand. 

The  lessening  light  gleams  on  }*on  leaning  sail ; 

Slowl}'  the  sun  has  sunk  bej-ond  the  hill, 
And  sombre  night  in  silence  draws  her  veil 

Over  us  two,  and  everything  grows  still, 

Save  when  the  tide,  with  constant  ebb  and  flow 
Of  wandering  waves  that  greet  the  steadfast  shore, 

Flashes  fair  forms  of  foam  that  falling  throw 
Their  ardent  arms  round  rocky  Appledore. 

Faint,  like  a  dream,  comes  the  melodious  cry 
Of  far-off  wild  fowl  calling  from  the  deep  ; 

The  ros}r  color  leaves  the  western  sky, 

Over  the  waves  are  spread  the  wings  of  sleep. 


526  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Silent  a  meteor  falls  into  the  night, 

Sweeping  its  silver  shower  across  the  stars  ; 

Low  down  Arcturus  sinks  with  waning  light, 
High  in  the  east  climbs  up  the  shining  Mars. 

And  whispering  03*  us  with  a  silent  kiss 

Comes  the  sweet  south  wind  o'er  the  slumbering  sea. 
Thou  dearest !   can  such  perfect  joy  as  this 

Be  always  mine,  to  drift  through  life  with  thee? 


HER  SHAWL. 

Dearest,  where  art  thou  ?     In  the  silent  room 
I  find  this  wonder  of  some  foreign  loom, 
Thy  silken  shawl,  whose  lines  of  loveliness 
The  matchless  beaut}'  of  thy  form  caress. 
Delicate  raiment,  shall  I  dare  infold 
All  these  warm  kisses  mid  thy  threads  of  gold  ? 
Oh,  hold  them  close  her  icy  heart  above, 
Melting  its  winter  into  summer's  love  ! 
Beneath  her  coldness  fonder  still  I  grow, 
As  violets  bloom  along  the  edge  of  snow. 
Through  my  sad  heart  there  drifts  a  hope  divine, 
O'er  seas  storm-swept  shall  softer  mornings  shine 
So  love  ma}*  dawn  for  me  while  at  thy  feet 
1  wait,  and  kiss  thy  garment's  hem,  my  sweet. 


SHarren  1£otat  (Eorijrane. 

Rev.  W.  R.  Cochrane,  son  of  Hon.  Robert  B.  and  Elizabeth  (Warren)  Cochnnif, 
•was  born  in  New  Boston,  Aug.  25,  1835.  Doing  his  best  iu  a  very  humble  diMrirt 
school,  afterwards  by  "boarding  himself"  at  select  schools  here  and  there,  he  went 
t<>  Krancestown  Academy  to  finish  fitting  for  college,  and  was  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  in  the  class  of  1859.  He  was  twice  elected  tutor  in  said  college,  in  which 
capacity  he  served  till  prevented  by  failing  health.  Then  Mr.  Cochrane  \v:t.-  tor 
a  time  teacher  of  a  High  School.  He  was  licensed  to  preach  by  the  Derry  and 
Manchester  Association,  April  10, 1866.  After  preaching  in  several  places,  as  feeble 
health  would  allow,  he  began  service  with  the'  Presby terian  church,  Antrim,  Jan. 
1,  1868,  and  continues  pastor  of  the  same.  The  poems  of  Mr.  (Jochranc  have  ap 
peared  occasionally  for  many  years  in  the  paper* — chiefly  the  Congregationalist. 
He  gave  the  poem  at  the  centennial  of  New  Boston,  July  4,  1863.  Also  "Air.s"  a 
poem  at  the  semi-centennial  reunion  of  Fraiicestown  Academy. 


A  HOME  MISSION  HYMN. 

"In  all  the  world,"  the  Saviour  cries, 

In  ever}"  clime  and  kin, 
Where  man  in  chains  of  error  dies, 

Or  lives  in  chains  of  sin ; 


WAREEN  ROBERT  COCHRANE.         527 

"To  every  creature  preach  my  Word ;" 

And  shall  not  that  command 
With  first  obedience  be  heard, 

For  friends  and  native  land  ? 

Shall  not  our  golden  western  gates 

By  holy  feet  be  trod  ? 
And  rising  homes  and  forming  states 

Be  trained  to  worship  God  ? 

Can  we  the  hills  of  glory  reach 

Through  grace  the  Master  gave, 
If  men  of  the  same  land  and  speech 

We  do  not  try  to  save  ? 

Oh  !  giving  wealth  and  toil  and  care, 

Let  each  beseech  the  skies 
Till  covered  with  its  cloud  of  prayer 

Our  nation's  incense  rise  ! 

Till  truth  shine  from  each  western  height, 

And  from  each  eastern  dome, 
And  Christ  in  all  his  love  and  light 

Reach  every  heart  and  home  ! 


THANKS  FOR  THE  YEARS. 

These  quiet  years  !     These  quiet  years  ! 
From  world ly  hopes  and  worldly  fears, 
And  Fortune's  glittering  snares  apart ; 
So  close  to  nature's  smile  and  heart ; 
Sweet,  noiseless,  peaceful,  near  the  shore, 
Yes,  O  my  Father,  o'er  and  o'er 
I  thank  thee  for  these  quiet  3-ears  ! 

These  saddened  years  !     These  saddened  years  ! 

Pains,  partings,  sins — so  much  for  tears  ! 

So  many  failings  that  I  mourn, 

So  many  loved  ones  from  me  torn, 

The  griefs  of  others  on  me  pressed  ; 

Yes,  Lord,  since  thou  hast  thought  it  best, 

I  thank  thee  for  these  saddened  years  ! 

These  toilsome  years  !     These  toilsome  3'ears  ! 
Whose  work:  like  sunlight,  disappears 
Awhile  ;  the  toil  of  heart  and  mind 
To  help  the  weak,  to  lead  the  blind, 
To  guide  the  strong  with  zealous  care  ; 


528  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Yes,  Lord,  in  many  an  earnest  prayer 
I  thank  thee  for  these  toilsome  years  ! 

These  happy  years  !     These  happy  years  ! 
The  hand  that  helps,  the  love  that  cheers, 
Blessing  each  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
A  Father's  unabated  smile  ; 
Fast  friends  and  saintly  fellowships  ; 
Yes,  blessed  Lord,  with  reverent  lips 
I  thank  thee  for  these  happy  years  ! 

These  hopeful  years !     These  hopeful  years  ! 

Arched  over  them  thy  bow  appears, 

And  in  its  radiant  lines  I  see 

Thy  promises  of  love  to  me — 

Home,  rest  with  Christ  forevermore  ; 

Yes,  O  my  Father,  o'er  and  o'er 

I  thank  thee  for  these  hopeful  years  ! 


THE  MORNING  CALL. 

How  well  I  remember  long  ago 

A  voice  at  my  chamber  calling, 
When  shining  over  the  hills  of  snow 

The  light  of  morn  was  falling  ! 
How  gladly  I  think  of  his  whitened  head, 

And  his  hair  so  thin  and  curly, 
As  he  said  to  us  scampering  off  to  bed, 

"I'll  call  }'ou  bright  and  early  !" 

And  never  he  failed  to  call  us  so, 

Whatever  his  work  or  worry ; 
And  down  to  the  glowing  hearth  below 

We  rushed,  half-dressed,  in  a  hurry  ! 
And  oh  !  what  a  welcome  there  we  had, 

A  troop  of  laughing  faces  ; 
And  the  old  round  table  looked  so  glad 

When  we  all  got  into  our  places ! 

Now  the  father  who  called  us,  old  and  wr,n, 

Is  near  to  a  deeper  slumber, 
And  into  the  silent  land  are  gone 

Most  of  that  happy  number. 
But  a  tenderer  Father,  who  never  sleeps, 

Sees  all  in  their  night-robes  hidden  ; 
And  over  each  narrow  chamber  keeps 

His  fatherly  watch  unbidden  ! 


WARREN  ROBERT  COCHRANE.         529 

And  out  of  that  slumber's  deeper  thrall, 

Since  He  Himself  decreed  it, 
"We  shall  hear  the  sound  of  his  morning  call, 

And  hurry,  as  then,  to  heed  it ! 
And  gladder  than  ever  we  were  before, 

Where  toil  and  death  could  sever, 
We  expect  to  meet  on  the  other  shore, 

And  part  no  more  forever ! 

Then  forth  to  labor  I  wend  my  way, 

No  toil  that  He  gives  me  hating, 
Till  sunset  gold  or  evening  gray 

Shall  end  my  weary  waiting. 
And  "down  to  sleep"  I  consent  to  go, 

No  marks  of  my  chamber  scorning, 
Because  my  Father  in  heaven,  I  know, 

Will  wake  us  in  the  morning  ! 


NEAR. 

I  feel  so  blessedly  near  at  times, 
As  to  question  which  it  may  be  ; 

My  poor  spirit  to  heaven  that  climbs, 
Or  heaven  that  comes  to  me. 

I  catch  the  air  of  the  flowery  land 
And  the  odors  so  sweet  it  brings ; 

And  fancy  m}r  wondering  face  is  fanned 
By  the  sweep  of  the  angels'  wings. 

I  can  almost  see  the  beautiful  throng 

In  their  high  and  holy  mirth  ; 
And  breathe  the  notes  of  the  heavenly  song, 

Though  I  never  could  sing  on  earth. 

Onl}r  a  step — a  veil  between 

The  dark  and  the  light,  so  thin, 
That  we  who  are  walking  the  outward  scene 

In  a  moment  may  pass  within. 

And  then,  I  know,  will  my  vision  be  free, 

And  my  eyes  no  more  be  dim, 
When  He  who  so  often  has  come  to  me, 

Shall  call  me  away  to  Him. 

And  then  I  shall  see  how  the  heaven  that  lies 

So  near,  should  be  yet  unseen  ; 
For  the  light  was  too  brilliant  for  earthly  eyes 

Without  a  veil  between. 


530  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Julia  T^an  Ness 


Mrs.  Whipple  is  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  late  Capt.  N.  G.  Dana,  U.  S.  A..  and 
Sister  of  Major  General  N.  G.  T.  Dana,  formerly  of  the  army.  On  her  mother's 
side  she  is  descended  from  the  old  historic  family  of  Langdon  of  Dartmouth.  She 
was  born  at  Fort  Mom-oe,  Va.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  but  three  years  old, 
and  after  a  few  years  her  mother  was  married  to  Hon.  Charles  II.  PeMtoe.well 
known  in  this  state,  and  who  was  Collector  of  the  port  of  Boston  during  the  admin 
istration  of  President  Pierce.  Mrs.  Whipple  was  married  at  the  age  of  seventeen 
to  J.  P.  Whipple  of  this  state  but  at  that  time  a  merchant  in  New  Orleans.  When 
she  was  twenty-three  years  of  age  her  husband  died,  leaving  one  little  boy 
who  has  become  a  broker  in  New  York  City.  From  1862  to  1863  Mrs.  Whipple  ac 
quired  considerable  reputation  as  an  elocutionest  and  Shakspearian  reader,  when 
a  delicacy  of  the  throat  obliged  her  to  relinquish  public  reading.  Since  the  death 
of  her  husband  she  has  resided  mostly  in  Portsmouth. 


PEARLS. 

O  pearls,  fair  pearls  of  the  deep  blue  sea, 

Emblems  of  spotless  purity, 

White  as  the  soul  of  a  spotless  child, 

Pure  as  the  thoughts  of  a  maiden  mild, 

Clear,  from  each  sign  of  stain  or  flaw, 

As  the  robes  of  white  winged  angels  are ; 

Gem  of  heaven  !  though  born  in  the  sea, 

In  thy  matchless  purity,  chosen  to  be 

Set  for  the  gates  of  that  city  bright, 

Where  the  glory  of  God  is  the  onl}-  light, 

Where  each  of  the  twelve  great  gates  will  be 

One  pearl,  of  surpassing  purity, 

Opening  wide  for  that  happy  band 

Who  shall  enter  in  to  the  promised  land, 

The  New  Jerusalem, — decked  as  a  bride 

For  the  hosts  who  have  followed  '"The  Crucified," 

Who  have  "fought  the  fight  and  kept  the  faith," 

Are  delivered  forevermore  from  death, 

Who  can  nevermore  know  or  pain  or  fear, 

From  whose  eyes  God  wipes  the  last  sad  tear, 

And  who  in  the  presence  of  heaven's  great  King, 

Their  pseans  of  victory  and  praise  shall  sing. 

O  bright,  bright  land  of  the  ever  blest ! 
My  tired  heart  longs  for  thy  peace  and  rest, 
And  to  reach  that  beautiful,  shining  shore 
Where  death  and  partings  can  come  no  more, 
Where  cleansed  from  each  spot  the  just  shall  be 
The  Pearls  of  God  in  Eternity. 


THE  VOICE  AMID  THE  TREES. 

As  I  sit  beside  my  window, 
On  this  summer  eve  so  fair, 


JULIA  VAN  NESS  WHIFFLE.  531 

Oft  I  hear  amid  the  stillness 

Whisperings,  borne  upon  the  air, 
Gentry  swelling — and  then  dying 

Mid  the  leaves  on  3'onder  tree, 
Sweet  the  words,  though  mostty  sad  ones, 

That  the}r  whisper  unto  me. 

Softly  sighing — now  it  brings  me 

Cherished  memories  of  the  past, 
Sunny  childhood's  happy  hours, 

Girlhood's,  joj's,  too  bright  to  last. 
Dear  loved  voices,  long  since  silent, 

Seem  to  speak  again  to  me, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmuring 

In  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree. 

As  it  speaks,  my  tears  are  falling 

For  the  dearly  loved  and  gone, 
And  the  &hadows  seem  to  darken 

That  across  my  path  are  thrown. 
Still  your  whispering  oh  sad  voices, 

Mid  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree, 
If  you  bring  with  you  no  healing 

For  those  memories  sad  to  me. 

Hark !  again  the  voice  is  speaking, 

Soft,  and  gentry  sweet  'tis  now, 
And  methinks  the  wings  of  angels 

Gentty  fan  my  burning  brow. 
Why  so  grieving,  so  despairing? 

Wiry  so  weary  on  thy  road  ? 
Think,  oh  child,  thy  path  of  sorrow 

Is  to  bring  thee  nearer  God. 

Dry  thy  tears  for  the  departed, 

And  mourn  not  for  the  living  dead, 
Strong  and  firm  be  in  thy  duty, 

Follow  where  thy  Saviour  led.      , 
When  sad  memories  cling  around  you, 

Meet  them  not  with  murmuring  sigh, 
Listen  to  the  voice  that's  with  you, 

Saying — "Fear  not — it  is  1." 

Thus  it  is  those  gentle  voices, 

Mid  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree, 
On  this  soft,  sweet  summer  evening, 

Have  been  whispering  unto  me. 


532  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


fft.  13atfcer. 


Miss  Sarah  M.  Parker,  daughter  of  Josiah  M.  and  Maria  A.  Parker,  was  horn  in 
Amherst,  Oct.,  183"),  where  she  resided  till  the  year  is.vt,  removing  then  to  Lynde- 
boro'.  The  earlier  part  of  her  life  was  somewhat  occupied  in  school  teaching.  Of 
late  she  has  heen  a  resident  of  Milford,  where  for  fourteen  years,  in  connection  with 
other  duties,  she  has  heen  engaged  in  the  much  loved  work  of  Sunday  School  teach 
ing  of  the  little  children. 

t  \ 

GOSPEL  BELLS. 

Gospel  bells  are  sweetly  ringing, 
Messages  of  love  they're  bringing 
That  will  set  our  hearts  to  singing ; 

Happy  bells  ! 

How  the  Lord  of  life  and  glor}T 
Seeks  the  sinner,  lost  and  lowty, 

This  it  tells. 

List  the  bell  of  invitation, 
Calling  every  tribe  and  nation, 
To  the  waters  of  salvation, — 

Hear  it  tell, 

"Come,  the  fountain  faileth  never; 
Come,  and  drink,  and  live  forever, 

Blessed  bell ! 

Slighted  is  the  invitation, 
Lo,  the  bell  expostulation, 
Sendeth  forth  its  exhortation 

"Why,  O,  why, 

Still  His  love  and  mercy  spurning? 
To  the  fountain  quick  be  turning  ; 

Will  ye  die?" 

If  these  calls  we  still  are  scorning, 
Clear  as  song  of  birds  at  morning, 
Then  the  solemn  bell  of  warning 

Gives  its  voice  :    . 
If  these  messages  unheeding, 
All  too  late  ye  may  be  pleading ; 

"Make  your  choice." 

Bell  of  hope  !  it  soundeth  cheery, 
When  all  other  sounds  are  dreary, 
And  the  heart  has  grown  aweary, — 

Far  from  home. 
"AVhosoever  will,"  'tis  saying, 
"With  no  doubt  or  fear  delaying, 

Let  him  come." 


SARAH  M.  PAEKEE.  533 

If  no  more  His  goodness  spurning, 
Whose  great  love  is  o'er  us  yearning, 
Unto  him  repentant  turning, 

We  shall  live. 

For  then  rings,  as  we  surrender, 
Mercy  bell !  in  accents  tender, 

"I  forgive!" 

Bell  of  peace  !  'tis  softly  stealing, 
As  at  his  dear  feet  we're  kneeling, 
More  of  Jesus'  love  revealing, 

Full  supply. 

For  the  waters  of  the  fountain, 
Flowing  down  from  Calvary's  mountain, 

Satisfy. 

Bell  of  faith  !  'tis  stronger,  clearer, 
As  to  heaven  we're  coming  nearer, 
And  its  mansions  grow  the  dearer, 

Wondrous  bright ! 
It  will  cease  its  ringing,  never, 
Till  we  reach  the  bright  forever  ; 

Land  of  Light ! 

Bells  of  jo}-  in  heaven  are  ringing ; 
Joy  bells  in  my  soul  are  singing, 
From  the  fountain  I  am  bringing ; 

Glad  I  am ! 

Record  of  the  blest  forgiven, 
Happy  family  of  heaven, 

Bears  my  name 

To  the  morning  breezes  given, 
To  the  silent  breath  of  even, 
Ringing  all  day  long  to  heaven, 

Bell  of  prayer ! 

In  God's  ear  we  pour  our  sadness, 
Thus  we  tell  him  all  our  gladness  ; 

Heard  up  there. 

For  His  wondrous  love,  abounding, 
All  our  pathway  here  surrounding, 
Be  to  highest  heaven  resounding, 

Bell  of  praise  ! 

Ring,  till  earth  shall  bow  before  Him, 
And  till  every  heart  adore  him, 

For  his  grace. 


534  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Bell  of  promise  !  down  the  ages, 
From  where  sin  its  war  first  wages, 
Lo,  it  ringeth,  and  engages 

Christ  shall  save. 

And  more  clearly  still  it  ringeth,  p 

As  from  out  the  tomb  he  bringeth 

Life  He  gave ! 

I  am  lost  in  adoration, 

And  mount  up  with  exultation, 

As  I  list  the  proclamation 

Of  this  bell ; 

For  of  sinless  life  eternal, 
With  our  Lord  where  fields  are  vernal, 

Doth  it  tell. 

While  salvation's  bell  is  ringing, 
And  its  fountain  upward  springing, 
Golden  hours  their  way  are  winging ; 

Pause  and  think  ! 
Do  not  longer  be  delaying, 
Hear  the  voice  of  Jesus  saying, 

"Come  and  drink." 

Chime  of  bells !  of  love  they're  telling, 
Love,  all  other  love  excelling, 
Angels  on  the  theme  are  dwelling, 

Up  above. 

Talk  no  more  of  earthly  glory, 
Tell  to  me  the  sweet  old  story, — 

Jesus'  love. 


HOME. 

Where  is  your  home,  O  my  beautiful  child? 
"Home  is  with  mother,"  she  said  as  she  smiled, 
"  'Tis  where  my  father,  no  kinder  could  be, 
Takes  up  his  little  one  oft  on  his  knee, 
'Tis  where  the  birds  sing  so  sweetly  all  da)1, 
Down  where  the  bees  and  the  butterflies  play, 
Where  the  bright  roses  climb  over  the  door, 
I  am  so  happ3',  what  can  I  want  more?" 

Maiden,  fair  maiden,  say  where  is  3-0111'  home? 
Js  there  a  spot  whence  3-011  never  would  roam? 
Is  there  a  place  where  unfailing  you  meet 
What  the  heart  craveth  in  confidence  sweet? 


MATTIE  FRANCES  JONES.  535 

"Yes,  in  a  heart  that  is  loving  and  true, 
There  is  my  home — I  will  tell  it  to  you. 
He  whom  I  cherish  is  noble  and  good  ; 
Where  better  home  could  I  find  if  I  would  ?" 

Where  is  your  home,  mother?     "Gladly  I'll  tell ;" 
'Tis  where  my  husband  and  little  ones  dwell, 
Where  sweet  contentment  reigns  all  the  day  long, 
And  oft  ascendeth  the  praj-er  and  the  song ; 
Pleasant  home  duties,  the  glad  hours  invite 
To  bless  and  make  beautiful,  this  my  delight. 
'Tis  where  love  reigneth,  nor  discord  can  come  ; 
Say,  do  you  wonder  I  cherish  my  home  ?" 

Christian,  they  tell  me  of  mansions  of  bliss, 
Where  is  your  home,  that  is  brighter  than  this? 
Where  never  waves  of  adversity  roll, 
And  not  a  sorrow  oppresseth  the  soul  ? 
"Over  the  river, — the  mansions  are  fair, 
My  Father  is  waiting  to  welcome  me  there, 
Sin  never  can  enter,  its  pleasures  to  blight, 
Its  sun  goes  not  down  in  the  shadow  of  night, 
There's  room  for  whoever,  through  Jesus,  will  come, 
And  fulness  of  joy  in  His  presence  at  home." 


Jftattte  J^rances  Jones. 


Mrs.  Jones,  whosanowi  deplume  is  "Nettie  Vernon,"  was  born  in  Hudson,  in  1836. 
She  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Dea.  E.  S.  Marsh.  She  was  educated  at  the  Nashua 
Literary  Institution,  and  at  Appleton  Academy,  Mount  Vernon.  She  has  been 
much  of  the  time  engaged  in  teaching.  In  1864  she  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  James 
S.  Jones,  who  had  been  laboring  for  a  term  of  years  as  a  teacher  in  California. 
Returning  to  that  state  with  his  wife  soon  after  marriage,  they  remained  until  1875. 
Mrs.  Jones  assisted  her  husband  in  his  vocation,  teaching  in  several  counties.  A 
little  family  has  gathered  around  her,  and  amid  life's  busy  cares  she  finds  but 
little  time  to  devote  to  literature.  She  was  formerly  a  contributor  to  Arthur's 
Home  Magazine,  and  other  periodicals.  They  reside  in  Merrimack. 


WILL  IT  BE  ALWAYS  NIGHT? 

Will  it  be  always  night  ? 
God  knows  how  drear 
Is  earth's  poor  trembling  light ; 

Will  he  not  hear 
Each  whispered  prayer,  and  note  each  falling  tear? 

Will  it  be  always  night — 

Cold  night,  and  lone? 
Shall  I  ne'er  see  the  light 
From  His  white  throne  ? 
A  glimmering  light  to  guide  me,  trusting,  on  ? 


586  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSIIIEE. 

Will  it  be  alwa}"s  night? 

Long  time  mine  eye 
Hath  sought  hope's  dawning  light 

O'er  time's  dark  sky  ! 
Faith's  purest  light,  why  greets  it  not  mine  eye  ? 

Will  it  be  always  night  ? 
Cold  sorrow's  wave — 
I've  felt  its  chillness  quite, 

And,  by  3ron  grave, 
0,  hear  my  prayer,  All-merciful  to  save ! 

Will  it  be  always  night, 

Night  of  despair? 
Of  longings  for  the  bright, 

Celestial  sphere? 
Thy  grace,  my  Father,  'twill  life's  burden  aid  to  bear  ! 

Heaven  hath  no  night ! 

It  hath  no  waning  day  ! 
But  pure  and  brilliant  light 

Shineth  for  aye ! 
No  weary  pilgrim  seeketh  there  the  way ! 


HAVE  FAITH  AND  PERSEVERE. 

Are  you  weary,  sister,  weary  toiling  up  the  narrow  wa}"  ? 

Is  life's  path  all  dark,  all  dreary, — do  no  sunbeams  round  it  play? 

Trust  in  God  !  His  love  will  surely  turn  the  night-time  into  day  ! 

Are  }'ou  fainting,  sister,  fainting  for  the  words  of  hope  and  cheer  ? 
Have  they  long  remained  unspoken,  never  falling  on  thine  ear? 
Trust  in  God  !  His  words  of  promise  will  arrest  the  falling  tear ! 

Are  you  sitting,  sister,  sitting  where  the  shadows  thickly  fall  ? 
Is  thy  spirit  all  o'ershadowed,  'neath  the  folds  of  sorrow's  pall? 
God's  free  grace  is  ever  giving  sweetest  sunshine  unto  all ! 

Are  you  waiting,  sister,  waiting  for  the  brilliant  morning  dawn, 
Ere  thy  soul  goes  forth  in  conflict  mid  the  hosts  of  right  and 

wrong  ? 
If  he  aid  thee  in  the  conflict,  soon  the  direst  foe  is  gone. 

Do  not  linger,  sister,  linger  mid  these  shades  of  grief  and  gloom  ! 
Look  beyond  earth's  narrow  limits  and  the  portals  of  the  tomb  ! 
Heaven  has  flowers  of  rarest,  sweetest  fragrance  and  perfume. 

Will  you  pluck  them,  sister,  pluck  them  to  entwine  around  thy 

brow? 

Linger  not  amid  the  cypress  ;  fairer  flowers  await  thee  now, 
And  the  brightest  crown  in  heaven  may  be  woven  here  below  ! 


CHAELOTTE  M.  PALMER.  537 


Miss  Palmer  is  a  native  of  Dover,  where  she  still  resides.  She  is  a  writer  of  both 
prose  arid  verse.  Her  poems  occasionally  appear  in  the  Boston  Traveller  and  in 
the  Christian  At  Work. 


FAITH. 

Our  God  gives  perfect  peace  to  those 
Whose  minds  are  stayed  on  him  ; 

Believing,  trusting,  they  repose 
In  faith,  though  hope  grow  dim. 

Faith  can  endure  all  present  ill, 

As  seeing  Him,  unseen, 
Who  gives  us  strength  to  do  his  will, 

Or  bear,  with  soul  serene. 

Faith  owns  a  charm  which  none  may  scorn, 

A  precious  secret  knows  ; 
Where  worldly  minds  bewail  the  thorn, 

Faith  sees  the  budding  rose. 

Faith  hears  God's  fond  assuring  voice 

Above  the  thunders  loud, 
Sees  his  benignant,  smiling  face 

Through  the  dark,  threatening  cloud. 

Faith,  like  the  lark,  mounts  heavenward, 

Soaring  on  noiseless  wings, 
Till,  distant  from  earth's  mists  and  jars, 

In  calm,  pure  air  she  sings. 

Faith  views  this  life  as  pilgrimage  ; 

We  tent  on  foreign  strand, 
Still  toiling  on  to  reach,  at  length, 

Our  home,  the  promised  land. 

Faith's  torch  the  dangerous  road  illumes 

Which  leads  us  to  the  tomb  ; 
Through  shadow}-  vistas  we  discern 

Bright  shores  beyond  the  gloom. 

Though  tossed  on  time's  tempestuous  zone, 

A  realm  of  rest  outlies  ; 
Faith,  foiling  death,  convoys  the  soul 

To  gates  of  paradise. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


A  HYMN  OF  TRUST. 

Father,  thy  paternal  love 
Guards  me  safe  where'er  I  rove. 
Real  good  can  ne'er  befall 
Him  who  trusts  to  thee  for  all. 
Mid  the  snares  of  life  I  tread, 
Ever  by  thy  goodness  led  ; 
Every  hour  new  mercies  fall ; 
Let  me  view  thy  hand  in  all. 

Seeming  evil  hath  its  good, 
If  but  rightly  understood  ; 
111  to  good  thy  hand  can  turn, 
Tears  to  smiles,  for  those  who  mourn  ; 
Faithful  ones  have  borne  for  thee 
Suffering,  shame  and  poverty  ; 
In  thy  promise  did  they  rest, 
With  th}r  presence  they  were  blest. 

Saints  have  suffered  cruel  death, 
Witnessing  with  latest  breath 
To  this  hidden,  mighty  power — 
Victors  in  the  mortal  hour. 
Prison-cell  and  dungeon-chain 
Echo  back  the  sweet  refrain : 
"Evil  cannot  me  befall, 
While  I  see  my  Lord  in  all !" 

Martyrs  doomed  to  sword  and  flame 
For  the  love  they  bore  thy  name, 
These  all  join  in  sweet  accord  : 
"Faithful  is  our  gracious  Lord." 
Saviour,  guardian,  glorious  friend, 
Let  me  trust  thee  to  the  end  ; 
Let  me  hear  thee  gently  say  : 
"Child,  I  am  thy  strength  and  stay." 

» 

&J)oma0  Katies  Eltrrirf). 

T.  B.  Aldrich  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth,  born  in  1838.  After  trying  mercantile 
pursuits  in  a.Ncw  York  counting-room,  he  gave  his  attention  to  literature ;  was  con 
nected  with  the  Home  Journal,  and  other  periodicals,  and  became  a  frequent  con 
tributor  to  the  leading  magazines.  He  began  to  publish  poems  in  the  Portsmouth 
Journal  in  1854.  His  "Baby  Bell"  appeared  in  1858,  showing  that  he  had  not  mis 
taken  his  vocation.  Removing  to  Boston,  he  published  a  series  of  tales  which  at 
tracted  much  attention,  and .were  translated  into  French.  Mr.  Aldrich  has  made 
two  \  Uits  to  Europe  with  his  wife,  and  given  evidence  that  they  were  not  unprofit 
able  in  literary  respects.  His  poetical  vein  is  rich,  delicate  and  tender;  and  the  cul 
tivated  circle  he  addresses  is  always  enlarging.  He  has  published  several  volumes  of 
poems  and  of  fiction,  and  recently,  a  Life  of  N.  P.  Willis.  A  complete  edition  of 
his  poems  in  one  volume  was  published  in  1882. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  539 

ENAMORED  ARCHITECT  OF  AIRY  RHYME. 

Enamored  architect  of  air}'  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt ;  heed  not  what  each  man  sa}'s. 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamers'  wa}"s, 
AVill  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time  ; 
Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  their  days  ; 

But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  Wondersmith,  O  worker  in  sublime 
And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all ; 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 

Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given : 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 
Dissolve  and  vanish — take  thyself  no  shame. 

The}r  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven. 


SLEEP. 

When  to  soft  sleep  we  give  ourselves  away, 
And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 
Drift  on  and  on  through  the  enchanted  dark 

To  purple  daybreak — little  thought  we  pay 

To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know  b}"  day. 
We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 
So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  may  mark 

The  thin,  swift  pinion  cleaving  through  the  gray. 

Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill, 

The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up  again 

The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make  it  bleed ; 

For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's  voice  is  still, 
No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 

How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep  indeed? 


TITA'S  TEARS.— A  FANTASY. 

A  certain  man  of  Ischia — it  is  thus 

The  story  runs — one  Lydus  Claudius, 

After  a  life  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 

Passed  suddenly  from  out  the  world  of  men 

Into  the  world  of  shadows.     In  a  vale 

Where  shoals  of  spirits  against  the  moonlight  pale 

Surged  ever  upward,  in  a  wan-lit  place 

Near  heaven,  he  met  a  Presence  face  to  face — 

A  figure  like  a  carving  on  a  spire, 


540  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

Shrouded  in  wings  and  with  a  fillet  of  fire 

About  the  brows — who  stayed  him  there,  and  said  : 

"This  the  gods  grant  to  thee,  O  newly  dead  ! 

Whatever  thing  on  earth  thou  holdest  dear 

Shall,  at  thy  bidding,  be  transported  here, 

Save  wife  or  child,  or  any  living  thing." 

Then  straightway  Claudius  fell  to  wondering 

What  he  should  wish  for.     Having  heaven  at  hand, 

His  wants  were  few,  as  you  can  understand. 

Riches  and  titles,  matters  dear  to  us, 

To  him,  of  course,  were  now  superfluous  : 

But  Tita,  small  brown  Tita,  his  young  wife, 

A  two  weeks'  bride  when  he  took  leave  of  life, 

What  would  become  of  her  without  his  care? 

Tita,  so  rich,  so  thoughtless,  and  so  fair ! 

At  present  crushed  with  sorrow,  to  be  sure — 

But  by  and  b}T?     What  earthly  griefs  endure? 

They  pass  like  joj-s.     A  year,  three  years  at  most, 

And  would  she  mourn  her  lord,  so  quickly  lost? 

With  fine,  prophetic  ear,  he  heard  afar 

The  tinkling  of  some  horrible  guitar 

Under  her  balcony.     "Such  thing  could  be," 

Sighed  Claudius  ;  "I  would  she  were  with  me, 

Safe  from  all  harm."  ''But  as  that  wish  were  vain, 

He  let  it  drift  from  out  his  troubled  brain 

(His  highly  trained  austerity  was  such 

That  self-denial  never  cost  him  much,) 

And  strove  to  think  what  object  he  might  name 

Most  closely  linked  with  the  bereaved  dame. 

Her  wedding  ring? — 'twould  be  too  small  to  wear  ; 

Perhaps  a  ringlet  of  her  raven  hair? 

If  not,  her  portrait,  done  in  cameo, 

Or  on  a  background  of  pale  gold  ?     But  no, 

Such  trifles  jarred  with  his  severity. 

At  length  he  thought :  "The  thing  most  meet  for  me 

Would  be  that  antique  flask  wherein  my  bride 

Let  fall  her  heavy  tears  the  night  I  died." 

(It  was  a  custom  of  that  pimple  day 

To  have  one's  tears  sealed  up  and  laid  away, 

As  everlasting  tokens  of  regret — 

The}'  find  the  bottles  in  Greek  ruins  yet.) 

For  this  he  wished,  then. 

Swifter  than  a  thought 

The  Presence  vanished,  and  the  flask  was  brought — 
Slender,  bell-mouthed,  and  painted  all  around 
With  jet-black  tulips  on  a  saffron  ground  ; 


GEORGE  DUDLEY  DODGE.  541 

A  tiny  jar,  of  porcelain  if  you  will, 
Which  twenty  tears  would  rather  more  than  fill. 
With  careful  fingers  Claudius  broke  the  seal 
When,  suddenly,  a  well-known  merry  peal 
Of  laughter  leapt  from  out  the  vial's  throat, 
And  died,  as  dies  the  wood-bird's  distant  note. 
Claudius  stared  ;  then,  struck  with  strangest  fears, 
Reversed  the  flask — 

Alas,  for  Tita's  tears  ! 


33otrge. 


Mr.  Dodge  is  a  native  of  Hampton  Falls,  born  in  1836.  He  entered  Brown  Uni- 
ersity  but  never  graduated,  on  account  of  ill  health.  He  has  been  a  merchant,  and 
manufacturer,  but  now  finds  health  and  pleasure  in  the  cultivation  of  the  soil, 
[e  resided  three  years  in  Savannah,  Georgia,  when  a  bookseller.  In  1880  he  was 
tie  candidate  of  the  Prohibition  party  for  Governor  of  this  state.  He  still  resides  at 
[ampton  Falls. 


PEACE  BE  STILL. 

Tempest-tossed  on  the  billows  of  life, 
Wear}'  and  worn  with  struggle  and  strife, 
Upward  I  glance  to  heaven  above, 
And  list  to  words  of  tender  love — 
"Peace  be  still,  O  troubled  soul, 
I  will  all  thy  grief  console." 

Hope  would  vanish,  and  the  giant  Despair 
Would  drag  my  soul  to  his  dreadful  lair, 
But  for  the  voice  of  tender  love 
Speaking  to  me  from  heaven  above, 
"Peace  be  still,  O  troubled  soul, 
I  will  every  foe  control." 

Let  the  tempest  roar  and  the  billows  roll, 
Nought  shall  disturb  my  peaceful  soul, 
While  come  to  me  from  heaven  above 
These  cheering  words  of  tender  love, 
"Peace  be  still,  O  troubled  soul, 
I  will  every  storm  control." 

God  help  poor  souls  in  the  vo}*age  of  life, 
Weary  and  worn  with  struggle  and  strife, 
Who  hear  no  voice  of  tender  love 
Speaking  to  them  from  heaven  above, 
"Peace  be  still,  O  troubled  soul, 
I  will  all  thy  grief  console." 


542  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Nancg  Driest  ft&lafcefiettr. 

Nancy  A.  W.  Priest  was  born  in  Roylston,  Mass.,  Dec.  7, 1830.  She  received  her 
education  at  a  common  school.  Her  desire  for  reading  was  very  great  and  she  im- 
proved  every  spare  moment  for  that  purpose.  She  began  to  write  poetry  at  the  a.ire 
of  six  years.  In  the  spring  of  1857  she  went  to  Ilinsdale,  and  \v:is  there  employed 
for  several  years  in  a  paper-mill.  In  1865  she  was  married  to  Arlington  (_;.  Wake- 
lield.  They  removed  to  Bartonsville,  Vt.,  where  she  died  May  28, 186W,  leaving  throe 
children,  the  youngest  but  twenty-nine  days  old.  It  was  while  at  work  in  the  mill 
at  Hinsdale  that  she  composed  the  immortal  poem  "Over  the  River."  It  was  writ 
ten  while  in  the  mill  at  noon,  on  a  stormy  April  day,  after  she  had  partaken  of  her 
lunch,  and  the  idea  was  suggested  as  she  looked  across  the  dark  Ashuelot  river. 
A  volume  of  her  poems,  entitled,  "Over  the  River,  and  other  Poems,"  is  published 
by  her  mother  Mrs.  Sophia  B.  Priest,  of  Winehendon,  Mass.  It  appeared  in  the 
spring  of  1883.  It  contains  nearly  all  of  Mrs.  Wakefield's  poems  which  were  print 
ed  under  different  signatures,  as  Nancy  Priest,  Lizzie  Lincoln,  etc.,  and  some 
which  have  never  before  been  in  print.  It  is  a  volume  of  sweet  poetry. 


OVER  THE  RIVER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 

Loved  ones  who  crossed  to  the  further  side ; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sumry  gold, 

And  e3-es  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue  ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him.  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there, 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see, 
Over  the  river — over  the  river — 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet : 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale — 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark, 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangety  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side, 

.Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ; 
Over  the  river — the  n^-stic  river — 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale — 

We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 
And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail ; 

And  lo  !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  hearts, 
Who  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for  aye, 


NANCY  PEIEST  WAKEFIELD.  543 

"We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart, 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  daj- ; 

We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 
May  sail  with  us  over  life's  storm}*  sea ; 

Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 
They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand,  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar ; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail, 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand, 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land  ; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river — the  peaceful  river — 

The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 


HEAVEN. 

Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomj'  skies, 

Beyond  death's  cloud}'  portal, 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 

And  love  becomes  immortal. 

A  land  whose  light  is  never  dimmed  by  shade, 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal ; 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade, 

But  blooms  for  aye,  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  the  balmy  air, 

How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers  ; 
We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there, 

Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see 

With  our  dim,  earthly  vision  ; 
For  death,  the  silent  warden,  keeps  the  key 

That  opes  those  gates  elysian. 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky 

The  fiery  sunset  lingers, 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers. 


544  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar, 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  brightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar, 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 

O  land  unknown  !     O  land  of  love  divine  ! 

Father  all  wise,  eternal, 
Guide,  guide  these  wandering,  wayworn  feet  of  mine 

Into  those  pastures  vernal. 


Baniel  H.  Jttillf&en. 


D.  L.  Milliken  was  born  In  Walpole.  His  education  was  mostly  obtained  at  Kim- 
ball  Union  Academy.  He  is  editor  of  the  "Hearth  and  Home,'f  a  magazine  pub- 
lished  in  Boston. 


GARFIELD. 

Outborne  on  thought's  electric  wings, 
Swift  flies  the  midnight's  moaning  breath 

O'er  huts  of  toil  and  halls  of  kings, 
And  brings  to  each  the  hush  of  death. 

Ah,  midnight  bells  !  Ah,  tolling  bells  ! 

Ye  rouse  a  million  sleeping  bands  ! 
Ah,  sad,  sad  bells  !  Your  throbbing  tells 

To  each  the  drain  of  golden  sands. 

The  nation's  trusted  ruler  dead  ! 

Too  deep  for  finite  minds  to  trace 
The  tvhy  his  gentle  blood  was  shed — 

As  well  might  mortals  fathom  space. 

The  damning  deed  all  time  shall  ban. 

And  Scotia's  thought  shall  deeper  burn — 

"Man's  inhumanity  to  man," 

Alas  !  "makes  countless  thousands  mourn." 

And  when  on  each  centennial  height 
The  nation  calls  her  honored  roll, 

Shall  Garfield's  name,  in  letters  bright, 
With  Lincoln's  writ,  enstar  the  scroll. 

His  lofty  life,  and  mart}T  death, 
Touch  softly  love's  electric  cords, 

And  hush  and  banish,  with  a  breath, 
The  dire  and  wicked  war  of  words. 


DANIEL  L.  MILLIKEN.  545 

Heroic  soul,  thy  fight  is  o'er, 

The  world's  great  heart  thy  captive  now ; 
From  pole  to  pole,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Thy  loyal  legions  loving  bow. 

Forever  brave  to  dare  and  do, 

Thy  banner  always  in  the  van, 
In  every  station  staunch  and  true — 

A  soldier,  statesman,  scholar,  man  ! 

The  veil  so  thin,  thine  eye  to  greet, 

'Twixt  mortals  and  immortals  held, 
Through  which  ye  heard  God's  whispers  sweet, 

His  pitying  hand  hath  now  dispelled. 

The  world  gives  thee  its  fond  farewells ! 

The  waves  of  Elberon  moaning  stray, 
And  love,  in  tender  message,  tells, 

"He  calmly  breathed  his  life  away." 

From  lowly  cot  and  palace  hall 

Imbued  with  perfumed  breath  of  May, 

Around  thy  bier  the  roses  fall, 
As  ne'er  before  round  mortal  clay. 

From  ocean  wave  to  mountain  height, 

From  cabin  door  to  gilded  dome, 
Our  land  is  draped  in  gloom  of  night, 

As  are  the  heavens  when  storm-kings  roam. 

Nor  staj7  our  shores  the  waves  of  grief, 
But,  o'er  the  wrecks  of  time  swift  borne, 

In  other  lands  they  find  relief, 

And  mighty  millions,  melting,  mourn. 

Thy  name  from  fame's  eternal  peaks 

The  waves  of  time  shall  ne'er  efface  ; 
Thy  speech  shall  live,  as  lives  the  Greeks' — 

Thou  benefactor  of  thy  race. 

For  age  on  age,  thy  name  shall  give 

To  men  an  inspiration  high  ; 
Ye,  living,  taught  us  how  to  live, 

And,  dying,  taught  us  how  to  die. 


IN  WINTER. 

When  winter  robes  the  mountain  white, 
And  powders  all  the  trees  ; 


I 

546  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  banished  are  the  birds  and  flowers, 
And  silent  are  the  bees  ; 

When  brooks  forget  their  murmurs  sweet, 
And  fields  their  fragrance  rare  ; 

When  creaks  the  snow  beneath  the  sleighs, 
And  biting  is  the  air ; 

When  huddled  are  the  herds  and  flocks, 
And  wolves  grow  over-bold  ; 

When  frosted  is  the  traveller's  beard, 
And  piercing  is  the  cold  ; — 

"Tis  then  I  dream  of  orange  groves, 

And  join  the  birds  in  flight 
To  where  the  flowers  uplift  their  cups 

To  greet  the  morning's  light. 

Yet  rest,  O  heart,  in  sweet  content, 

The  birds  will  come  again, 
And  Spring  will  scatter  wide  her  flowers 

On  every  hill  and  plain. 

The  seasons  all  are  wisely  planned  ; 

In  sunshine,  storm  or'  calm, 
For  age  on  age,  the  self-same  hand 

Will  rock  the  pine  and  palm. 


ILabinia 


Miss  Weeks  was  born  in  Hopkinton,  January  8,  1837.  She  was  educated  at  Hop. 
klnton  Academy,  and  by  a  private  teacher,  a  professor  of  Bowdoiu  College.  She 
has  always  resided  in  her  native  town. 


SPIRIT  VOICES. 

Bright  fancies  hover  o'er  our  dreams  to-night, 

Sweet,  gentle  melodies  above  us  roll, 
Like  echoed  voices  from  the  world  of  light, 

To  hush  the  wayward  passions  of  the  soul. 

From  nature's  sacred  book  we  read  once  more. 
And  feel  the  fevered  brow  grow  cool  and  calm, 

Bathed  in  that  fount  whose  water  can  restore, 
And  have  for  restless  ones  a  soothing  balm. 

Whence  come  these  soft,  low  whispers,  in  the  leaves, 
That  thrill  the  soul  with  happiness  so  deep  ? 

Are  angel  voices  wafted  on  the  breeze, 
Like  the  enchanting  music  of  our  sleep  ? 


LAVINIA  PATTEBSON  WEEKS.  547 

Blest  world  of  love  where  comes  no  earthly  harm, 
Pure  spirit  home  which  sorrow  never  mars ; 

Jf  these  brief  glories  have  such  power  to  charm, 
What  regions  those  which  lie  beyond  the  stars ! 


"HOPE  ON— HOPE  EVER!" 

"Voyager  on  life's  billowj7  main  !" 

Is  thy  sky  with  grief  o'ercast, 
Saddening  thee  with  secret  pain, 

Ghostly  shadows  from  the  past? 

Does  the  storm  dash  wildlj7  round  thee, 
Deep  and  dark  the  breakers  lie, 

Till  thy  spirit  sinks  within  thee, 
And,  despairing,  waits  to  die  ? 

Long  thy  harp  has  sought  the  willows, 
By  the  cold  and  troubled  streams — 

Look  beyond  the  surging  billows, 
Where  the  bow  of  promise  gleams. 

Though  some  hopes  no  more  ma}*  brighten, 
Nurse  them  not  in  silent  grief; 

Wrhat  though  tear-drops  sometimes  glisten, 
'Tis  the  soul's  most  sweet  relief. 

Languid  spirit,  rise  and  gird  thee ! 

Leave  thy  vain  and  idle  dreams  ; 
Let  the  call  of  duty  nerve  thee ; 

This  alone  the  past  redeems. 

Though  thy  path  may  seem  the  darkest, 
Just  beyond  this  mortal  sphere 

There  are  souls,  to  God  the  dearest, 
Who  have  suffered  keenest  here. 

Though  the  silver  chain  is  broken, 
To  be  joined  on  earth  no  more, 

There's  a  holy,  blest  reunion 
Waits  thee  on  a  distant  shore. 

Laurels  that  we  prize  the  highest 
Wreathe  the  weary  brow  of  pain, 

And  the  harp  whose  tones  are  sweetest 
Echoes  oft  a  sad  refrain. 


548  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

As  the  stars  that  shine  above  thee 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

So  the  ills  that  now  attend  thee 

Shall  but  make  thy  crown  more  bright. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

"At  break  of  day  God  called  away  the  sweetest  of  earth's  singers." 

'Tis  summer,  and  the  morning  bells  ring  out  their  joyous  pealing. 
But  deepty,  sadly  to  our  hearts  what  mournful  sounds  are  stealing  ! 
Yes,  sad  indeed  the  tidings  came,  from  o'er  the  distant  waters, 
The  world  of  genius  mourns  to-day  one  of  her  peerless  daughters. 
Of  that  fair  clime  for  which  thy  heart  had  beat  so  sympathetic, — 
That  land  long  bound  with  papal  chains,  thy  bright  faith  was 

prophetic ; 
For  ere  thy  spirit  passed  from  earth,  the  despot's  power  was 

quaking, 
And  o'er  that  land  the  glorious  light  of  freedom's  morn  was 

breaking. 

Although  we  may  not  witness  yet  the  last  stronghold  defeated, 
Its  children  shall  rejoice  at  length  o'er  victory  completed. 
Oh,  who  could  teach  as  thou  couldst  do  in  thy  poetic  trances? 
Or  learn  the  muses'  subtle  charm  and  feel  its  passion  glances  ? 
Thy  harp  could  strike  the  loftiest  notes,  and  }*et  so  sweetly  human, 
That  never  in  thy  proudest  strains  did  genius  veil  the  woman. 
The  flowers  of  love  within  thy  heart,  though  late  appear  their 

blooming, 

For  lying  thus  so  long  concealed,  retained  their  fresh  perfuming. 
Till  thou  couldst  place  them  in  that  shrine  more  dear  than  every 

other, 

Thine  was  the  sacred  name  of  wife,  the  holy  one  of  mother. 
While  musing  on  thy  soul-lit  strains  our  faitli  in  God  grew  stronger, 
The  heart  that  felt  for  others'  woe  shall  solace  ours  no  longer. 

Ye  sought  to  wreathe  with  lovely  flowers  the  cold,  stern  path  of 
duty— 

Now  thou  art  gone  where  withered  joys  bloom  with  immortal 
beauty. 

They  laid  thee  where  no  sounds  of  earth  can  rouse  thee  from 
thy  slumbers ; 

They  laid  thee  where  no  joyous  strains  can  wake  thy  tuneful 
numbers ; 

They  laid  thee  where  the  floral  train  its  brightest  flower  dis 
closes  ; 


EDWAED  P.  NO  WELL.  549 


They  laid  thee  gentty  down  to  rest  amid  Etruscan  roses, 
Beneath  Italia's  sunny  skies,  amid  the  great  and  gifted ; 
But  ere  thy  spirit  passed  away,  the  clouds  of  earth  are  rifted — 
The  joys  of  purer  realms  than  this  are  mingled  with  thy  dreamings, 
For  while  with  us  ye  seemed  to  catch  from  heaven  its  bright  re- 
vealings. 

No  more  for  thee  are  loving  friends  their  anxious  vigils  keeping, 
For  cold  beneath  the  southern  cross  thy  cherished  form  is  sleeping, 
But  ever  round  thy  life  so  pure,  shall  sweetest  memories  cluster — 
The  glorious  thoughts  that  tuned  thy  lyre  shall  shine  with 

brightest  lustre, 

Now  that  thy  spirit,  free  from  earth,  on  tireless  pinions  roving, 
Shall  gain  the  "poet's  highest  goal,"  the  haven  of  thy  mooring. 
Win-  should  we  longer  wish  thee  here,  with  earthly  cares 

enthralling 

The  glorious  visions  of  that  soul  whom  God  in  love  was  calling? 
We  should  rejoice  that  thou  art  safe  beyond  the  gloomy  portal, 
And  praise  him  for  the  glorious  gift  that  crowns  thy  name 

immortal. 


,  Notoell. 


Edward  P.  Nowell  was  born  in  Boylston,  Vt.,  February  24,  1837.  His  early  life 
was  speut  in  Portsmouth,  and  he  was  educated  there.  He  went  to  New  York  City 
and  became  editor  of  the  American  Odd  Fellow,  for  seven  years,  and  it  increased 
largely  in  circulation  during  his  management.  He  was  made  the  official  reporter 
of  the'U.  S.  Grand  Lodge  of  Odd  Fellows  for  two  years.  Mr.  Nowell  sprung  from 
Kevolutionary  stock.  His  grandfather  was  an  officer  in  the  federal  army  under 
Washington's  immediate  command,  and  was  stationed  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  the 
house  which  was  the  home  of  the  poet  Longfellow.  His  sudden  death  at  Defiance, 
Ohio,  April  29, 1880,  was  occasioned  by  an  over-dose  of  chloral,  taken  to  relieve  se 
vere  pains  from  which  he  had  been  suffering  the  day  previous.  He  was  buried  at 
Portsmouth. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

GEORGE   W.    BARNES,    DIED   AUGUST   31,    1879. 

At  Summer's  last  decline  of  day, 

At  glory-season's  dying  hour, 
A  ransomed  spirit  winged  its  way 

To  bliss,  through  Jesus'  saving  power. 

Though  years  of  weakness  and  distress 
Had  o'er  his  life  their  shadows  cast, 

Yet  with  true  fortitude  ne'ertheless, 
He  bore  up  bravely  to  the  last. 

And  when  the  solemn  summons  came, 
His  eyes  were  closed  in  death  serene  ; 


5-iO  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

While  placid  face  showed  that  all  blame 
Of  life  had  vanished  at  life's  e'en. 

A  good  man  to  his  rest  has  gone, 

A  husband  true  as  polar  star, 
A  father  whose  affection  won 

The  love  of  kin  that  naught  could  mar. 

A  noble  friend  to  all  was  he  ; 

His  heart  with  tenderness  was  fraught ; 
'Tis  said,  "He  had  no  enemy" — 

A  lesson  grand  his  life  has  taught. 

In  our  swift  passage  to  the  tomb, 

Let  love  and  friendship  rule  our  days, 

And  gladness  take  the  place  of  gloom, 

While  heaven  and  earth  join  in  our  praise  ! 

Peace,  sweetest  peace,  be  to  his  soul, 
And  fragrant  may  his  memory  be  ; 

He's  fought  the  fight  and  gained  the  goal 
Of  unalloyed  eternity ! 

O  mourning  hearts  !  let  light  break  through 
The  sable  clouds  of  grief  profound, 

And  give  to  weeping  eyes  a  view 
Of  glories  that  in  heaven  abound  ; 

So  that  this  pilgrimage  may  show, 
In  days  to  come,  a  solace  sweet 

Of  faith,  that  each  at  length  shall  know 
The  joy  the  loved  in  bliss  to  meet ! 


.  i&anlr, 


Rev.  Edward  A.  Hand  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth,  born  April  5,  1837.  He  fitted  for 
college  at  the  Portsmouth  High  School,  and  entered  Bowdoin  in  1853,  graduating 
in  1857.  In  1863  he  graduated  at  Bangor  Theological  Seminary,  and  was  ordained 
over  the  Congregational  church  In  Amesbury,  Mass.,  in  1865.  He  was  settled  over 
the  E  Street  Congregational  Church  in  South  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1S<>7,  ri'inaining 
until  1876.  Declining  the  call  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Franklin,  Mas.-., 
where  he  preached  for  some  time,  he  returned  to  South  Boston,  and,  in  the  autumn 
of  1879,  passed  into  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  assuming  care  of  Christ 
Church,  Hyde  Park,  Mass.,  in  1880.  He  now  resides  in  Watertown,  Mass. 


SING,  BONNY  BIRD ! 

Sing,  bonn}-  bird,  exultant  sing! 

Make  field  and  heavens  ring  ! 
A  bugle  rich  and  clear  your  voice, 

Thrice  welcome,  birdie,  sing ! 


EBWAKD  A.  SAND.  551 

For,  lo  !  your  song  brings  sounds  to  me 

From  lands  you  saw  afar, 
Where,  just  above  the  sky's  blue  rim, 

Soft  shone  the  northern  star. 

I  hear  the  breeze  through  orange-groves 

Breathe  low  and  hushe'd  and  calm, 
Then  die  away  in  echoes  sweet, 

As  dies  in  church  a  psalm. 

I  hear  the  dirge  of  milder  seas 

Along  their  shores  of  sand, 
A  wail  for  those  who  sailed  away 

But  ne'er  sailed  back  to  land. 

And  then  I  stand  by  deserts  gray, 

I  look  across  those  seas, 
When  lo,  above  my  head,  the  palm 

Mild  murmurs  in  the  breeze. 

Then  stay,  blithe  bird,  and  sing  again ! 

Fold,  fold  your  eager  wings  ! 
For  in  the  warbles  of  your  voice 

The  land  far  southward  sings. 


THE  SHIP  IN  THE  SUNSHINE. 

Across  the  sands,  strange  darkness  fell ; 

The  sun  had  dipped  beneath  a  cloud ; 
The  waves  now  sullenly  swept  on, 

The  surf  fast  whitened  to  a  shroud. 

And  shadows,  too,  fell  on  our  hearts, 
When,  lo  !  beyond  the  waves'  dark  run, 

We  saw  a  ship  far  out  to  sea — 
A  ship  slow  sailing  in  the  sun  ! 

O  ship  far  out  to  sea,  sail  on  ! 

Some  heart  upon  a  darkened  shore 
Will  see  with  joy  thy  whitening  sails, 

And  fear  the  deepening  gloom  no  more. 

O  souls  that  find  in  Christ  the  light, 
Sail  on  across  life's  shadowed  sea ! 

For  many  will  take  heart  by  you, 
And  cry,  '  'The  Sun  will  come  to  me !" 


552  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF. 

Is  that  a  step  upon  the  stairs, 
That  makes  its  echo  in  the  night? 

Not  that :  the  rain  creeps  down  the  roof ; 
I  hear  its  footfall  hushed  and  light. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  I  seemed 
To  hear  soft  footsteps  on  the  stairs ; 

I've  fancied  so  before,  and  oft 
Amid  the  silence  of  my  prayers. 

I  cannot  see,  but  fancy  still 

My  sainted  child  looks  in  my  face, 

And  think  the  shadow  of  a  wing 

Makes  heavenly  twilight  in  the  place. 

How  oft  within  her  eyes'  blue  depths 
I  looked  as  down  some  shaded  aisle 

That  into  heaven  ran  afar : 
God  only  let  me  look  awhile  ! 

The  bitter  rain  has  dripped  but  twice 
Since  last  I  heard  her  little  feet 

Drop  music  all  adown  the  stairs ; 

And  now — they  press  the  golden  street. 

Such  music  as  the  rain-drops  make, 
Those  passing  feet  made  every  day  ; 

One  eve  they  stopped,  and  then  I  knew 
That  they  had  climbed  the  heavenly  way 


POND-LILIES. 

All  through  the  day  the  lilies  float, 
Swayed  gently  by  the  drowsy  streams, 

As  tired  thoughts  in  sleep  obe3r 

The  changing  impulse  of  our  dreams. 

Through  waters  dead,  who  thought  such  life 
Was  creeping  up  the  tangled  stems, 

To  burst  in  bloom  of  snow  and  gold, 
And  sprinkle  wide  those  floral  gems  ? 

In  those  dark  depths,  who  thought  such  light 
In  folded  bud  was  thus  concealed, 

To  open  into  stars,  with  rays 

As  pure  as  those  by  night  revealed? 


FRANCIS  ORMOND  FRENCH.  553 

Take  heart,  faint  soul !  and  stay  the  grief 
In  whose  sad  presence  man  e'er  weeps. 

Up  through  life's  dark  and  shaded  depths, 
Some  bloom  of  beauty  ever  creeps. 

Some  rays  of  light,  in  darkness  hid, 

Wait  God's  appointed,  better  day, 
To  break  in  stars  whose  peaceful  beams 

Shall  shine  around  our  darkened  way. 


jFrancte 


Y.  O.  French,  a  son  of  Benjamin  B.  and  Elizabeth  G.  Trench,  was  born  in  Ches 
ter,  Sept.  12,  1837.  He  was  educated  at  Phillips  Exeter  Academy  and  Harvard  Col 
lege,  graduating  with  the  class  of  1857.  He  studied  law  at  Cambridge,  where  he 
was  librarian  of  the  Law  School  ;  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  New  York  in  1860  and 
practised  there,  and  later  in  Exeter.  He  was  deputy  collector  of  customs  at 
Boston,  from  1863  to  1865,  when  he  became  a  banker.  In  1870  he  went  to  New  York 
city,  where  he  is  engaged  in  the  same  business.  Specimens  of  his  father's  poetry 
have  already  been  given. 


EXTRACT 

From  a  poem  delivered  at  Class  Day,  Harvard  College,  1857. 

Yet  surely  this  is  not  an  hour  for  gloom, 
This  dawn  of  life  that's  opening  so  bright ! 
The  very  clouds  a  rosy  hue  assume  ; 
Let  owls  and  bats  hide  them  before  the  light ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  it  is  a  glorious  sight 
When  gallant  youth  his  armor  buckles  on, 
And  bears  him  forth  so  boldly  to  the  fight, 
As  though  the  victory  were  already  won, 
And  half  victorious  is  ere  yet  the  fight's  begun  ! 

A  trumpet  sounds,  a  heavy  draw-bridge  falls  ; 
A  cortege,  gleaming  in  its  rich  array, 
Comes  slowly  from  an  ancient  castle's  walls 
That  in  the  morning  sunlight  seem  less  gray ; 
The  steeds  step  eagerly  along  the  way, 
Champ  on  their  bits  and  snuff  the  morning  air  ; 
Their  riders,  calm,  yet  eager  for  the  fray, 
Demurely  sit  as  though  beset  by  care, 
Scowl  down  their  inward  joy,  and  gloomy  faces  wear. 

Their  armor  flashes  in  the  morning  sun 
As  though  its  temper  not  a  glance  could  brook  ; 
Their  pennons  flaunt  defiance,  every  one, 
Their  lances  have  a  fierce  and  angry  look  ; — 
I  fear  me  little  thought  the  riders  took 


554  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Of  dust  and  blood  with  which  they  should  be  sprent, 
When  from  the  dripping  leaves  the  dews  they  shook, 
And  rain  in  mimic  showers  was  o'er  them  sent, 
As  'neath  the  drooping  boughs  and  green- wood  trees  they  went ! 

These  men,  in  warlike  harnesses  complete, 
Unmoved  their  features,  nor  with  outward  pride, 
Save  up  their  vigor  for  the  battle's  heat, 
Yet  firmly  seated  in  their  saddles  ride, 
Trusting  their  fortune  to  their  weapons  tried  ; 
On  any  crisis  resolute  and  bold, 
Calmly  they  wait  and  let  the  eve  decide 
Whether  they  sup,  or  lifeless  lie  and  cold  ; 
Thus  through  the  warlike  world  their  on  ward  course  they  hold. 

Years  told  by  hundreds  have  filled  all  the  moats, 
Draw-bridge  and  turret  have  been  long  o'erthrown, 
No  more  the  broken  walls  shall  hear  the  notes 
So  loud  and  clear  from  warder's  trumpet  blown ; 
They  echo  now  the  owl's  shrill  cry  alone  : 
And  yet,  with  greater  reverence,  I  behold 
Those  walls  held  dear  to  hearts  in  ever}'  zone, 
O'er  which  two  centuries  have  already  rolled,* 
Since,  on  a  young  crusade,  their  gates  did  first  unfold. 

No  stir,  no  clangor  tells  our  coming  strife, 
Nor  armorer's  hammer  keeps  a  busy  din, 
Yet  earnestly  the  accoutering  of  life 
Is  going  on,  all  noiselessly,  within  ; 
The  trembling  }-outh  o'er  anxious  to  begin 
The  exciting,  active  scenes  of  his  career, 
Where  strength  of  arm  and  skill  shall  surely  win, 
Goes  through  the  daily  task  year  after  3'ear, 
While  elders  guide,  or  prove  with  scrutiny  severe. 

A  little  month, f — again  the  gates  shall  ope, 
And  from  the  portals,  lo  !  a  comely  train 
Of  vigorous  men,  in  panoply  of  hope, 
Armed  with  strong  wills  and  fortitude  'gainst  pain, — 
With  which,  or  truce  with  fortune  to  obtain, 
Or  to  her  venomed  shafts  prove  obdurate, — 
Come  forth  to  battle  in  a  life's  campaign, 
Enthusiastic,  in  their  strength  elate, 
And  with  unyielding  prowess  conquer  even  fate. 

*  The  first  class  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1642. 

\ 
t  Commencement  Day  occurs  one  month  after  Class  Day. 


FRANCIS  ORXOND  FRENCH.  555 

E'en  now  I  seem  to  hear  the  scorner's  voice, 
Already  in  my  ears  it  cries  me  hush, 
"All  is  a  dream  that  thus  makes  life  rejoice, 
To  wake  in  terror  when  'gainst  life  you  brush  ; 
This  prowess  comes  as  comes  the  youthful  blush  ; 
This  picture  fair,  like  frost-work  on  the  pane, 
Dissolves  in  tears  with  morning's  earliest  flush ; 
Enthusiastic  3'outh,  your  strength  is  vain, 
Awake  to  what  is  real,  for  all  you  see  you  feign." 

Back,  back  thou  tempter,  let  the  truth  alone, 
Nor,  by  false  lights  deceived,  try  to  deceive  ; 
To  weak  submission  man  is  ever  prone, 
Let  then  the  coward  heart  in  fate  believe, 
And  seek,  before  it  comes,  a  cause  to  grieve. 
Better  the  boldness  that  knows  no  defeat ; 
By  such  alone  does  man  success  achieve, 
And  so  his  greedy  fortunes  oft  ma}'  cheat, 
Or,  if  at  length  borne  down,  his  fate  shall  bravely  meet. 

Greatness  was  never  made  a  slave  to  fate, 
True  ever  to  itself  and  to  its  aim  ; 
Fortune  or  first  or  last  will  on  it  wait, 
And  bear  it  onward  steadily  to  fame  ; 
Then  will  all  ages  reverence  its  name. 
Or  should  the  present  day  its  worth  contest, 
Yet  shall  the  future  recognize  the  claim, 
Nor  was  a  Socrates  alone  oppressed  ; 
Bright  name  !  by  one  age  damned,  and  by  all  others  blest. 

And  so  full  oft  the  fortunes  of  each  one, 
That  seem  so  fickle,  and  nowise  secure, 
Are  in  his  keeping  did  he  never  shun 
The  arduous  duty  that  would  make  them  sure. 
Keep,  then,  thy  youthful  valor  bright  and  pure, 
And  to  the  promptings  of  thy  soul  be  true  ; — 
'Tis  Wisdom's  course — how  pitiful,  how  poor, 
Who  3'ields  him  up  to  ever}7  gawd  in  view, 
Lets  slip  his  early  faith  such  chances  to  pursue  ! 

No,  it  were  better  Hope  and  Faith  should  lead, 
And  sometimes  bear  their  follower  astray, 
Than  that,  deserted  in  the  hour  of  need, 
In  following  Fortune's  ever  dubious  ray, 
By  that  to  be  left  naked  in  the  wa}', 
Helpless,  and  hopeless,  and  o'ercome  at  last ; 


556  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

While  to  the  other  brighter  grows  each  day, 
And  when  upon  life's  verge  at  length  he's  cast, 
Light  marks  the  path  before,  and  all  his  cares  are  past. 

Yet  when  the  young  alumnus  leaves  these  halls, — 
A  learned  man,  perhaps,  in  freshmen's  eyes, 
While  many  honest  folks  without  the  walls 
In  all  that  can  be  known  believe  him  wise, — 
On  every  hand  how  great  is  his  surprise 
As  the  world's  facts  unveil  them  to  his  sight, 
Or  stern  and  hostile  in  his  pathway  rise ; 
Yet  start  not,  for  was  ever  picture  bright 
That  had  not  shadows,  too,  as  well  as  lines  of  light? 

First,  on  the  threshold,  what  a  shock  to  find, 
In  all  that  he  has  given  }'ears  to  gain, 
The  utter  ignorance  of  the  common  mind  ! 
Philosophy  has  been  to  useless  pain, 
And  half  our  best  loved  authors  lived  in  vain ; 
Sages  and  scholars,  gentle,  good,  and  wise, — 
All  are  unknown,  all  of  the  gifted  train : 
He  turns  and  finds,  when  wondering  what  they  prize, 
That  bread  or  broadcloth  most  the  vacancy  supplies. 

And  bitter  is  the  disappointment,  when, 
As  to  the  stage  of  life  you  are  brought  nigher, 
You  find  so  few  of  those  ideal  men, 
Whose  lives  should  teach  us  there  is  something  higher 
Than  bread,  beer,  beef,  soft  couches,  rich  attire — 
These  be  the  gods  to  whom  the  people  bend  ; — 
Build  thou  no  altars  to  them,  nor  in  ire 
Cast  from  your  hands  the  truth  j'ou  hold,  dear  friend  ; 
Break  not  the  tablets  where  God's  hand  the  law  hath  penned. 

And  then  the  freedom  that  one  hopes  is  his ! 
When,  harried  by  this  discipline  no  more, 
Should  he  in  trivial  things  e'er  prove  amiss, 
No  carping  scrutiny  will  vex  him  sore — 
Alas  !  restraints  far  harsher  than  before 
On  every  side  with  thorns  his  pathway  flank  ; 
Still,  after  tea,  boards  talk  his  conduct  o'er, 
And  scandal  still  plucks  at  his  social  rank, 
Till  Mrs.  Grundy's  feared  e'en  more  than  Tutor  Blank. 

P^ore warned,  so  walk  that  none  of  these  shall  wound  ; 
The  good  be  glad  in,  evils  boldly  face, 
And  ever  true  in  all  we  do  be  found  ; 
lu  our  own  actions  our  ideals  trace, 


DA  VID  GEAHAM  ADEE. 


Then,  as  they're  true  and  lovely,  lend  they  grace  ; 
Earnest  alway  for  manly  dignity, 
Yet  never  scorn  the  lowliest  of  the  race, 
And,  humble  in  our  little  worth,  to  be 
E'er  without  pride  toward  those  who  have  less  store  than  we. 

Yet  why  at  such  an  hour  anticipate 
That  future  which  One  Prescience  only  knows, 
The  complex  plan  that  ignorance  calls  fate, 
Where  man  in  every  act  the  shuttle  throws 
That  bears  the  varied  woof  of  joys  and  woes, 
Till  the  whole  pattern  is  at  length  complete  ! 
Yet  this  we  would  not,  if  we  could,  disclose  ;  • 

Who  would  not  from  Fate's  magic  glass  retreat, 
As  in  dark  rooms  we  shrink  our  mirrored  selves  to  meet ! 

Nay,  ere  the  moment  passes,  while  we  still, 
Though  on  the  threshold,  fondly  linger  here, 
We  turn  to  those  fair  scenes  we  love  so  well — 
That  theme,  however  old,  yet  ever  dear, 
That  falls  with  spring-like  freshness  on  the  ear — 
These,  throughout  life,  our  sympathies  enchain, 
And  start  in  aged  eyes  the  jO3'ous  tear, 
As  memories  wake  that  slumbering  long  have  lain  : 
To  these,  in  parting  now,  I  dedicate  my  strain. 


to  <£raijam 


David  G.  Adee  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1837.  He  was  educated  at  the  New 
York  University,  and  in  1860  was  admitted  to  the  practice  of  law  in  New  York  city. 
In  1870  he  travelled  in  Europe,  Russia,  Norway  and  Sweden.  On  his  return  lie 
again  resided  in  New  York,  until  1878,  when  he  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C. 
For  ten  years  past  he  has  spent  his  summers  and  autumns  at  North  Conway,  where 
most  of  his  poetry  has  been  written. 


AT  ROME. 

As  Pius  passed  I  held  my  breath,  . 
My  heart  stood  still  as  if  in  death. 
Wiry  sli9uld  an  unbeliever  feel 
Such  awe  and  superstition  steal? 
A  kind  old  man  with  silver}*  hair 
And  face  sweet  with  religion  rare, 
A  smile  so  gentle,  pure  and  calm, 
It  seemed  to  sprinkle  heavenly  balm. 
Methought,  it  is  not  all  alone 
Because  he  sits  the  papal  throne  ; 
It  is  not  that  he  reigns  a  king 
And  wears  the  sacred  signet-ring ; 


558  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

Or  that  he  is  the  father  here 

To  chide  the  sin  and  dry  the  tear ; 

Or  that  he  wields  the  holy  keys 

For  penitents  upon  their  knees  : 

Not  these  the  reasons,  right  or  wrong, 

1  trembled  as  he  rode  along, 

In  chariot  rich  with  gems  and  gold, 

To  bless  the  children  of  his  fold, 

But  that  the  heart  of  human  kind 

Weary  of  groping,  faint  and  blind, 

Despairing  of  the  unseen  power 

Coming  to  earth  in  evil  hour 

To  speak  to  prayer,  to  smile  on  praise, 

To  cheer  the  faithful's  wistful  gaze, 

Had  clothed  this  presence  with  all  good 

To  give  to  sinners  saintly  food, 

To  set  .before  the  senses'  soul 

Comfort  and  consolation's  dole. 

Two  thousand  years  have  given  place 

Since  men  have  looked  upon  God's  face, 

And  the  soul  yearns  for  something  real 

To  represent  the  rapt  ideal. 

If  that  mankind  have  sought  to  give 

A  form  to  goodness  while  they  live, 

"Will  not  the  One  supreme  above 

Reward  their  longing  with  His  love  ? 

Thus,  as  I  viewed  the  emblem  there, 

An  aureole  seemed  to  glint  the  air, 

My  spirit  thrilled  in  blent  accord 

With  earth's  great  type  of  heaven's  lord. 


FOUR  PHASES. 

Golden  ringlets,  hazel  ej'es, 
Deep  and  dream}-,  fixed  afar ; 

Thoughts  that  to  the  zenith  rise  ; 
Life  the  heavens  and  he  a  star : 

This  the  boyish  poet's  rapture 

Ere  the  hours  his  spirit  capture. 

Chestnut  locks  about  the  brow  ; 

Love  and  beauty  ripe  and  real ; 
Love,  a  faith  the  heart  to  bow, 

Beauty,  a  divine  ideal : 
These  the  poet's  manhood  gladden 
Ere  the  years  his  nature  sadden, 


HENS  Y  AMES  BL  0 OD.  559 

Silvery  gray  the  clustering  curls  ; 

Looming  clouds  in  autumn  sky  ; 
Youthful  gems  but  ghostly  pearls  ; 

Beauty  dead  and  love  a  lie  : 
This  the  poet's  fatal  after, 
Bitter  tears  or  lightsome  laughter. 

Snowy  hair  and  frost}7  beard  ; 

Kindly  glance  and  cheery  saying ; 
Sweet  the  phantom  once  he  feared 

While  the  soul  was  still  a-Maying. 
Poet,  chant  celestial  measures  ; 
Kapt  the  realm  that  holds  thy  treasures. 


SHELLEY. 

Soul-inspired  skeptic  and  great  earthly-born  ! 

To  thee  all  nature  was  a  rapturous  dream — 

Sky,  summer,  life,  love,  and  the  poet's  theme, 
The  silver  of  the  sea,  the  golden  morn, 
The  sunset,  and  the  fields  which  flowers  adorn, — 

These  were  all  worshipped  with  the  glowing  gleam 

Of  ardent  adoration  ;  the  bright  beam 
Of  mortal  sainted  by  the  spirit  worn, 
And  soaring  toward  the  stars.     Thou,  reft  away 

From  beauty  and  the  balm}7  breath  of  rest, 
Baskest  beneath  a  warmer,  welcomer  ray 

In  the  glad  realm  of  bards  supreme!}7  blest — 
Hunt,  Byron,  Coleridge,  Keats — in  glorious  da}-, 

'Mong  whom  thy  name  and  fame  is  grandest,  best. 


H.  A.  Blood,  a  native  of  Temple,  was  born  about  1840.  He  is  a  graduate  of 
Dartmouth  College.  After  leaving  College  he  spent  a  few  years  in  teaching  school, 
when  he  accepted  a  situation  in  the  Department  of  State  at  Washington,  D.  C.  He 
is  the  author  of  a  history  of  his  native  town.  A  volume  of  his  poems,  and  anpther 
of  dramas,  have  been  stereotyped,  but  as  yet  are  unpublished.  From  the  former 
the  poems  here  given  have  been  selected.  Specimens  of  his  poetry  are  found  in 
several  collections.  Epes  Sargent,  in  his  "Cyclopaedia  of  British  and  American 
Poetry,"  highly  compliments  Mr.  Blood's  poems,  and  regrets  that  his  volumes  are 
unpublished. 


THE  CHIMNEY-NOOK. 

Oh,  how  much  comfort  is  there  in  the  glow 

Of  a  rosy  fire  in  winter, 

When  each  stern  and  stick  and  splinter 
Burns  all  the  brighter  for  the  winds  that  blow. 
Then  high  or  low  the  walls,  they  wear  a  joyous  look, 


560  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE.    • 

Nor  is  anything  more  cheery, 
"When  the  winter  wind  sounds  dreary, 
Than  sitting  by  the  fire,  within  the  chimney-nook. 

Bring  Red-heart  Oak,  the  tyrant  of  the  wood  ; 

Bring  him  hither  in  a  dead-cart, 

Lop  his  limbs,  tear  out  his  red-heart, 
And  throw  it  to  this  hungry  fire  for  food. 
Bring  Tall-Pine,  whose  old  head  long  since  the  crows  forsook 

Tall-Pine,  he  is  in  his  dotage, 

But  his  head  shall  boil  our  pottage, 
While  we  sit  here  and  laugh  beside  our  chimney-nook. 

Old  Tall-Pine,  you  were  old  when  I  was  young, 

On  your  head  the  rains  had  drifted, 

Through  your  locks  the  snows  had  sifted 
A  hundred  years  ere  my  first  song  was  sung ; 
Your  foot  was  gouty  grown,  your  head  with  palsy  shook, 

But  your  heart  possessed  3*ou  lightly, 

And  3'ou  stood  your  sentiy  nightly., 
While  I  sat  here  and  dozed  beside  my  chimney-nook. 

Do  you  remember,  Tall-Pine,  years  ago, 

When  I  rambled  in  my  childhood 

Through  }ron  solitary  wild-wood, 
And  climbed  your  high  top  for  the  callow  crow  ? 
Hurrah  for  those  old  days  when  you  and  I  partook 

Snow  and  rain  and  hail  together, 

Little  thinking  this  cold  weather 
Would  bring  us  face  to  face  beside  my  chimney-nook. 

But  now  the  wind  is  louder  than  before  ; 

With  a  wild  demoniac  laughter 

He  is  running  down  the  rafter ; 
I  will  not  talk  nor  dally  with  you  more  : 
For  that  you  were  my  friend,  some  pity  had  me  strook ; 

But  the  night  is  growing  colder, 

And  my  spirit  waxes  bolder 
To  have  you  keep  me  warm  beside  my  chimney-nook. 

Then  lay  his  head  down  crowned  with  all  its  cones  ; 

Jt  shall  be  a  bed  of  roses 

Where  mine  ancient, friend  reposes  ; 
Peace  to  his  ashes,  rest  unto  his  bones  : 
Now,  bravo,  Tall-Pine,  for  3-0111-  aged  pate  ne'er  took, 

Since  the  spring-time  of  3'our  stor3*, 

Such  a  lustre,  such  a  glory^ 
As  this  I  see  it  wear  beside  my  chimne3*-nook. 


HENEY  AMES  BLOOD.  561 

Beneath  this  mansion  is  a  cellar  old, 

"Where  there  b}'deth,"  says  tradition, 

"A  moste  wondrous  wyse  magician, 
"Who  hydeth  hym  in  bottels  grene  with  molde." 
A  candle's  ray  at  night,  this  fellow  cannot  brook ; 

We  will  go  into  the  cellar 

With  our  lights  and  blind  the  fellow, 
Then  bring  him  to  his  wits  beside  our  chimney-nook. 

Can  you  believe  me?  Shakespeare  knew  him  well ; 

Jonson  loved  him  as  his  brother, 

So  i'  faith  did  many  another 
Most  potent  bard  who  felt  "hys  mightye  spell." 
Ere  this  magician  come,  hang  potluck  on  the  hook  ; 

We  will  never  close  our  lashes 

Till  Old  Tall-Pine  burns  to  ashes  ; 
But  laugh  here  all  night  long  beside  our  chimney-nook. 

Then  let  the  jolly,  motley  world  wag  on 

To  an  age  of  baser  metal ; 

So  it  upsets  not  our  kettle, 
Give  thanks  for  this  and  ask  for  fatter  brawn  ; 
We  shall  get  through  our  day,  somehow,  by  hook  or  crook ; 

Be  our  purse  however  slender, 

Only  give  us  fire  and  fender, 
We  shall  not  lack  for  fun  beside  our  chimney-nook. 

Oh,  how  much  comfort  is  there  in  the  glow 

Of  a  rosy  fire  in  winter, 

When  each  stem  and  stick  and  splinter 
Burns  all  the  brighter  for  the  winds  that  blow. 
Then  high  or  low  the  walls  the}r  wear  a  joyous  look  ; 

Nor  is  anything  more  cheery, 

When  the  winter  wind  sounds  dreary, 
Than  sitting  by  the  fire  within  our  chimney-nook. 


JEANNETTE. 

It  is  no  wonder  I  should  be 

More  sad  in  pleasant  weather, 
For  on  a  golden  day  like  this 

We  strolled  the  fields  together : 
Oh,  never  lived  a  maid  more  dear 

In  everybody's  praises  ! — 
Jeannette  was  picking  buttercups 

And  I  was  picking  daisies. 


562  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Her  beauty  and  her  grace,  it  seemed, 

The  saddest  heart  might  rally, 
But  though  she  gently  led  my  steps 

Through  all  the  quiet  valley, 
The  words  of  love  I  tried  to  speak 

Dissolved  in  empty  phrases  ; 
And  so  she  pulled  her  buttercups 

And  so  I  picked  my  daisies. 

But  when  she  coyly  raised  my  chin, 

And  with  a  charming  flutter 
Held  up  her  golden  prize  beneath, 

And  asked — if  I  loved  butter ! — 
Oh,  then,  in  words  that  blossomed  forth 

Like  flowers  from  heavenly  vases, 
I  told  her  how  the  buttercups 

Were  loved  by  all  the  daisies. 

She  often  visits  me  in  dreams, 

And  then,  in  sumptuous  vision, 
We  walk  through  meadows  full  of  light, 

We  roam  the  Fields  Elysian  ; 
And  side  by  side  we  loiter  on 

Through  all  the  starry  mazes ; 
She  picks  immortal  buttercups 

And  I,  celestial  daisies. 

Where  now  so  peacefully  she  lies 

Pale  evening  loves  to  linger, 
And  morning  comes  in  tears,  to  touch 

Her  grave  with  rosy  finger. 
And  every  June  that  rambles  by, 

A  moment  turns  and  gazes, 
Then  lajs  his  offering  on  the  sod 

In  buttercups  and  daisies. 

I/  ENVOI. 

Full  well  I  know  she  loves  me  still, 

For  oft,  through  skyey  portals, 
She  gives  to  me  the  sweetest  smile 

That  angels  have  for  mortals  ; 
And  evermore  to  guide  my  steps 

Through  all  the  world's  mizmazes, 
Wears  on  her  breast  the  light  of  stars 

In  buttercups  and  daisies. 


HENS T  AMES  BLOOD.  563 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Alas  !  alas  !  the  Old  Year  lies  dead  ! 

And  I  am  the  Wind,  the  harper  hoary, 
That  chanted  his  requiem  over  his  head, 

And  told  to  the  hills  his  sorrowful  story. 
Everything  comes  at  last  to  an  end  ; 

But  to  die  on  the  moor,  without  pillow  or  litter, 
The  desolate  moor,  with  never  a  friend, 

Not  one, — my  God  !  it  is  bitter !  bitter  ! 

Dead  !  dead  !     So !  so !  All  over  at  last ! 

And  he  died  of  old  age,  as  he  said'  he  should  die, 
With  the  poor  old  harper  alone  to  east 

One  glance  on  the  spot  where  his  ashes  lie. 
I  leant  o'er  his  vast  and  shadow}'  form, 

And  raised  up  his  shaggy  and  grizzled  head, 
And  felt  if  his  grand  old  heart  was  warm  ; 

But  alas  for  my  friend  he  was  dead  !  he  was  dead  ! 

Oh,  pity,  pity  !  I  am  so  blind, 

So  old  and  blind,  that  I  scarcely  know 
What  house  this  is,  nor  am  able  to  find 

A  bit  of  a  pathway  here  in  the  snow. 
So  blind,  that  although  I  anxiously  peer 

Full  high  and  low  through  the  shadows  of  night, 
I  can  only  just  guess  from  the  things  that  I  hear, 

Which  of  your  windows  is  alight. 

It  is  easy  to  see,  it  is  easy  to  see 

You  do  not  love  an  old  man  like  me  ; 
It  matters  but  little  whom  he  implores, 

On  the  poor  old  harper  they  shut  their  doors. 
But  I  will  not  call  you  unkind  in  there, 

For  I  know  I  am  crabbed  and  old  and  wheez}' ; 
And  I  carry  in  with  me  too  much  cold  air, 

My  cloak  is  so  large  and  my  cape  is  so  breezy. 

I  know  not  whether  yon  loved  the  Old  Year, 

But  I  know  a  poor  harper  who  loved  him  more 
Than  even  his  own  sweet  harp,  I  fear, 

Which  he  strikes  in  vain  at  }"our  openless  door. 
With  the  snow  so  white  for  his  glistening  shroud, 

And  the  night  so  black  for  his  funeral  pall, 
Ah  me,  that  sorrow  should  not  be  loud ! 

Ah  me,  that  sorrow  is  not  for  all ! 


564  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

How  well  I  remember  the  good  Old  Year, 

When,  a  barefooted  boy,  he  sat  under  the  pines, 
This  beautiful  antique  harp  to  hear, 

As  I  grandly  chanted  mine  ancient  lines. 
For  though  I  say  it,  this  harp,  I  say, 

Has  more  weird  music  about  the  strings 
Than  all  the  new-fangled  things  they  play 

In  convent  halls  or  the  courts  of  kings. 

Your  pardon,  good  folk,  for  I  never  came  here 

To  chant  my  own  praise ;  but  I  came  to  lament 
The  loss  of  my  friend  whom  I  held  so  dear, 

And  who  carried  my  heart  with  him  where  he  went. 
Alas  !  alas  !  my  old  friend  lies  dead  ! 

And  I  am  the  wind,  the  harper  hoarj', 
That  chanted  his  requiem  over  his  head, 

And  told  to  the  hills  his  sorrowful  story ! 

Gone  !  gone  !  forever  and  ever  gone  ! 

Would  that  I,  too,  might  come  to  my  rest ! 
But  I  cannot  die, — I  must  ever  go  on, 

Weary  and  wildcred,  a  thing  unblest. 
Hark  !  hear  you  not  the  voice  of  the  sea, 

Now  shrill  and  loud,  now  soft  and  low? 
It  is  calling  to  me  !  It  is  calling  to  me  ! 

It  says  I  must  go ;  it  says  I  must  go. 


THE  INVISIBLE  PIPER. 

Hark  !  the  invisible  piper  pla}-s  ! 

You  will  scarceh*  go  home,  I  think,  to-night, 
For  j'our  horse  will  cast  his  shoes  in  the  ways, 

And  you  will  follow  a  fire-fly  light. 
Oh,  he  is  the  piper  that  never  was  seen 
Any  two  days  or  nights  between  ; 
But  plenty  there  be  who  declare  he  looks 
Like  the  figure  of  Punch  in  the  picture-books, 
Or  a  wide-mouthed,  red-nosed,  rollicking  clown, 
With  his  face  all  laughter  from  chin  to  crown. 

Puffing  his  cheeks  and  piping  like  mad, 

He  will  march  through  autumn,  the  motley  fellow. 
And  the  leaves  cannot  see  him,  though  ever  so  glad, 

But  they  all  will  follow  him,  red  and  yellow. 
Not  a  farmer  but  misses  his  oaten  straws 

And  calls  on  the  piper,  aloud,  to  stay  ; 
But  he  scarcely  will  get  the  words  out  of  his  jaws 

Ere  the  piper  is  up  and  off  and  away. 


BENS T  AMES  BLOOD.  5G5 

When  the  winter  is  come,  and  the  nights  grow  late, 
And  the  old  crone  leans  at  the  kitchen  grate, 
In  solemn  wise,  and  mumbles  her  stories 
Till  the  urchins  make  big  eyes,  then  glories 
The  piper  to  blow  and  to  blow,  and  his  tone 
Those  urchins  think  is  the  desolate  moan 
Of  the  wounded  knight  in  the  legend  old, 
Which  the  skinny  old  crone  has  just  now  told  ; 
And  but  half  they  believed  her  marvellous  tale 
Till  the  piper  sounded  his  notes  of  bale ; 
And  it  is  very  queer  how  the  piper  and  she 
Will  cheat  little  children  two  times  out  of  three. 

He  comes  up  at  night  from  the  dreary  wold 

And  plays  round  the  chimneys  and  gables  old, 

And  flits  in  and  out  through  the  haunted  hall 

Till  the  family  portraits  dance  on  the  wall. 

But  most  he  loves  in  midsummer  eves 

To  answer  her  plaint  when  Echo  grieves  ; 

Or  chance  on  lovers  who  kiss  and  play 

In  the  shade  of  an  arbor  hid  away. 

No  better  piper  e'er  piped  on  a  straw 

To  the  king  of  the  forest,  the  bold  outlaw ; 

And  no  better  piper  e'er  piped  on  a  reed 

To  the  elves  and  the  fairies  that  skip  o'er  the  mead  ; 

And  no  better  piper  e'er  piped  on  a  quill 

To  the  shepherds  that  dance  'neath  the  loud-bleating  hill. 

Oh,  he  is  the  piper  for  all  and  for  all ; 

For  he  pipes  to  Maggie  and  he  pipes  to  Mall, 

He  pipes  for  the  cottage  and  he  pipes  for  the  hall ; 

He  pipes  for  merry  and  he  pipes  for  sad, 

He  pipes  for  sorry  and  he  pipes  for  glad, 

And  be  you  a  mistress,  or  be  you  a  lover, 

Sour  be  the  sorrel,  or  sweet  be  the  clover, 

There  is  no  better  music  the  wide  world  over. 


YEARNINGS. 

How  charming  it  would  be  if  you  and  T 
Could  shake  off  every  clog  which  Circumstance, 
Our  base  old  dungeon-keeper,  has  hung  round 
The  natural  freedom  of  our  God-made  limbs, 
And  so  go  wandering  about  the  earth 
At  our  own  pleasure,  till  we  chose  to  die  ! 
I  half  believe  that  somewhere  in  the  far, 


566  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Tumultuous  rush  of  the  earth-wasting  years, 
I  must  have  Led  a  heavenly  condor's  life, 
And  so,  full  man3r  a  time,  ftom  the  bright  centre 
Of  the  great  dome  that  roofs  the  sea  and  land, 
Have  looked  on  this  revolving  pageantry  ; 
For  not  a  day  goes  by  but  my  blood  burns 
To  roam  at  will  the  vast  and  glorious  rondure 
Of  this  fine  world  ;  to  saunter  up  and  down 
From  end  to  end  of  all  its  gorgeous  valleys, 
Its  rolling  rivers,  its  majestic  hills, 
Its  fiery  deserts,  its  wide  wastes  of  ocean. 

But  it  should  be  with  some  dear  bosom  friend, 
With  whom  I  might  be  talking  half  the  time  ; 
Now  in  high  strain  about  the  unknown  land, 
Now  marvelling  to  find  upon  all  things, 
Whether  in  earth  or  air,  upon  the  wave, 
The  tree,  the  rock,  the  sand,  the  blade  of  grass, 
Still  the  great  stamp  of  the  Reliable  ; 
And  both  of  us  so  much  at  one  with  nature, 
We  should  admire  the  very  heat  and  dust, 
The  very  snow  and  hail,  the  wind  and  rain ; 
Fearing  not  even  the  hungry  howls  of  beasts, 
The  horrible  unreason  of  the  brutes, 
Nor  any  enterprise  of  desperate  men  : 
Knowing  full  well  that  he  who  builds  his  life 
On  pain  and  sorrow,  builds  on  adamant ; 
While  from  foundations  deepest  laid  in  earth 
Must  spring  the  highest  turrets  into  heaven. 

So  then  it  would  be  nothing  but  a  pleasure 
To  toil  and  sweat  along  the  dusty  roads  ; 
To  drag  our  weary  limbs  from  cliff  to  cliff; 
To  poise  ourselves  upon  some  hair-breadth  edge, 
And  breathless  creep  above  the  pits  of  danger ; 
For  what  should  all  the  perils  of  the  journey 
Weigh  in  the  balance  with  its  houi's  of  joy, 
Its  blissful  commerce  of  two  loving  friends, 
Its  eagle  views  from  every  towering  peak, 
Its  glorious  intercourse  with  the  great  God, 
Who  made  and  lives  in  all. 

Oh,  I  believe 

Our  fate  will  yet  go  wandering  with  us 
AH  over  the  green  earth  in  this  great  wise  ! 
I  only  pray  it  may  be  before  Death, 
That  kind,  well-meaning  chemist,  shall  drain  off 


LEANDEE  8.  COAN.  567 

From  our  dear  souls  our  sweet  infirmities, — 
As  we  presume  he  will,  since  without  them 
How  shall  we  know  what  highest  pleasure  is ! 
And  yet  why  doubt  that  all  will  not  be  best  ? 
And  why  suppose  that  even  Death  can  bring  us 
Where  toil  and  pain  shall  walk  with  us  no  more  ? 

Oh,  certainly,  if  we  should  live  so  long, 

Till  heaven  has  sprinkled  our  good  heads  with  gray, 

Why  not  give  up  this  ignominious  life, 

Surrender  these  pale  comforts  which  our  age 

And  time  now  lavish  most  on  meanest  men, 

Distribute  all  our  goods  among  the  poor, 

And  after,  seek  our  fortunes  through  the  earth? 

Our  costume  should  be  suited  to  the  clime, 

And  we  would  carry  in  our  loving  hearts 

The  flowers  of  all  the  creeds,  scarce  knowing  which 

Were  loveliest !  And  all  our  walk  by  day 

Should  be  in  ever-changing  atmospheres 

Of  speech  and  silence  ;  while  as  night  came  down, 

And  the  good  stars  drew  near  us,  and  unveiled 

To  tell  us  we  might  sleep  since  they  would  watch, 

Then  seeking  out  the  best  place  we  could  find, 

Our  bodies  unto  cold  insensible, 

And  unto  fear  our  souls,  we  should  lie  down, 

And  the  soft  petals  of  our  eyes  would  close, 

And  all  the  heavens  would  watch  us  while  we  slept. 


Eeantrer  §b.  (Eoan. 

Rev.  Leander  S.  Coan  was  born  in  Exeter,  Maine,  Nov.  17, 1837.  He  began  the 
study  of  law,  but  turned  his  attention  to  religion,  and  determined  to  preach  the 
"Gospel  of  the  Blessed  Master."  He  graduated  at  the  Theological  Seminary  at 
Bangor,  Me.,  in  1862,  and  was  ordained,  as  a  Congregational  minister,  over  the 
church  in  Amherst,  Me.  In  1864  his  long  pent-up  patriotism  burst  the  bounds  that 
had  confined  him,  and  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  Sixty -first  Massachusetts  Vol 
unteers,  with  the  promise  that,  when  the  battalion  of  six  companies  was  increased 
to  a  full  regiment,  entitling  them  to  a  chaplain,  he  should  have  that  position.  But 
till  the  close  of  the  war  the  regiment  was  never  filled.  He  acted  throughout  as 
chaplain  but  was  uncommissioned.  After  the  war  he  preached  at  Boothbay,  Me., 
three  years;  Brown ville,  Me.,  three  years;  Bradford,  Me.,  six  months;  Somerset 
and  Fall  River,  Mass.,  three  years,  and  at  Alton  this  state  about  five  years.  He 
died  in  September,  1879.  A  volume  of  his  poems,  which  has  had  a  great  sale,  was 
published  in  1880. 


THE  SAME  OLD  FLAG. 

Bring  out  the  old  campaign  colors, 
Hoist  the  old  banner  high, 

With  starry  blue  and  crimson, 
Clear  in  the  autumn  sky, — 

The  same  old  flag  that  in  'sixty, 


568  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  later  in  'sixty-one, 
We  hailed  with  tears  of  devotion, 
When  the  skies  were  heavy  and  dun. 

We  followed  it  in  its  peril, 

That  its  folds  might  know  no  stain  ; 
And  now  that  dishonor  threatens 

We  rally  around  it  again. 
We  perilled  our  lives  for  its  honor ; 

Can  we  not  give  watchful  toil, 
That  no  fanatic  delusion 

Its  unsullied  lustre  soil? 

When  the  old  world's  socialist  convicts 

Hiss  our  fanatic  hate, 
Assailing  our  free  republic 

As  they  would  a  tA'rannous  state, 
We  will  rally  around  the  standard, 

We  will  lift  the  old  banner  high, 
Will  vote  and  toil  for  its  honor, 

As  once  we  were  ready  to  die. 

Defending  now  with  the  ballot, 

As  we  did  with  the  bayonet  then, 
With  cordons  of  steel  and  iron, 

In  the  hands  and  hearts  of  men, 
We  will  give  no  vote  to  dishonor 

The  sheen  of  its  stany  fold, 
That  shall  shame  when  in  the  future 

The  deeds  of  to-day  are  told. 

We  fought  disunion  and  treason 

As  loyal  freemen  then  ; 
And  now  dishonor  and  folly 

In  the  hearts  of  misguided  men. 
Though  the  load  to  be  borne  is  heavier 

Than  we  in  the  darkness  saw, 
We  may  not  refuse  without  breaking 

The  sacred  aegis  of  law. 

'Tis  the  fate  of  war  and  the  nation 

Cursed  by  a  traitor's  crew  ; 
Though  they  were  false  to  their  pledges, 

For  us  it  remained  to  be  true. 
We  stand  by  the  bond,  our  honor 

And  safety  bind  us  there  ; 
Of  breaking  the  nation's  pledges 

It  behooves  us  well  to  beware. 


ABBA  GOOLD  WOOL80N.  569 

WATER  LILIES. 

Our  little  white  lily  has  fallen  ; 

It  dropped  on  a  barren  strand, 
And  floated  away  on  the  water, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  my  hand. 

Into  the  mists  and  the  darkness, 

Far  away  from  the  clamorous  strife, 
It  floats,  and  I  may  not  reach  it, — 

My  little  white  lily  of  life. 

Oh,  the  little  white  face  of  my  darling ! 

How  it  shone  with  a  light  serene, 
As,  cleaving  the  turbulent  riVer, 

Its  tremulous  light  was  seen  ! 

And  now  the  mists  rise  in  the  darkness, 

And  the  black  spray  dashes  afar, 
But  flashing  and  white  in  the  distance 

That  little  face  shines  as  a  star. 

Though  the  waves  of  that  river  are  fearful, 

And  the  storm  on  its  bosom  is  wild, 
There  is  floating,  untouched  by  terror, 

The  face  of  a  little  child. 


i&oottr 

Mrs.  Woolson  Is  the  daughter  of  the  historian,  Hon.  Wm.  Goold,  of  Windham, 
Maine;  in  which  town  she  was  born  April  30, 1838.  Her  early  life  was  passed  in 
Portland ;  and  she  was  educated  in  the  High  School  of  that  city.  In  1856  she  be 
came  the  wife  of  its  principal,  Mr.  Moses  Woolson — an  eminent  teacher,  who  sub 
sequently  held  a  similar  position  in  High  Schools  of  Cincinnati,  Boston,  and  Con 
cord,  N.  H.  In  the  latter  city,  which  is  her  husband's  native  place,  Mrs.  Woolson 
has  resided  for  the  past  ten  years.  She  is  the  author  of  three  volumes,  entitled 
Woman  in  American  Society,  Dress  Reform  and  Browsing  among  Books,  all  pub 
lished  by  Roberts  Brothers  of  Boston.  Of  late  years  she  has  given  courses  of 
lectures  on  English  Literature  in  connection  with  History  in  Boston,  Washington, 
New  York  and  other  cities.  Her  poetry  consists  of  fugitive  pieces,  not  yet  collect 
ed  into  a  volume. 


TO  A  PANSY. 

Pressed  smoothly  in  these  printed  leaves, 
O  faded  flower  of  years  agone, 

Thou  knowest  naught  of  misty  eves 
Or  thrilling  light  of  morn. 

The  mould  where  once  thy  beauty  grew 
Has  nourished  many  a  later  flower ; 


570  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

And  skies  still  widen,  clear  and  blue,  , 
Above  that  garden  bower. 

But  thou,  alone  of  all  thy  race, 
Hast  felt  no  touch  of  chill  decay, 

And  wearest  an  immortal  grace 
While  summers  glide  away. 

Where  dew-drops  trembled,  soft  and  bright, 
A  tear  now  falls  from  saddened  eyes ; 

And  kisses  burn,  where  beams  of  light 
Smote  fierce  from  noon-day  skies. 

Not  roses  red  that  ope  to-day, 

Fresh  blowing  where  the  winds  are  free, 

Nor  tangled  lilies,  wet  with  spray, 
Can  win  my  heart  from  thee. 

For  one  whose  feet  no  longer  tread 
Through  leafy  ways  in  gardens  fair, 

Once  paused  and  bent  her  lovely  head 
Above  thy  beauty  rare  ; 

And  praised  thy  tissues  finely  wove, 
In  that  dear  voice  that  nevermore 

The  winds  may  bear  me,  though  I  rove 
By  plain  and  sea-girt  shore. 

Forever  dark  with  velvet  glooms, 
And  golden-hearted  as^the  dawn, 

I  still  shall  love  thee  when  the  blooms 
Of  coming  years  are  gone. 


THE  DEPAKTING  YEAR. 

He  came,  he  brought  us  meadow-bloom  and  grasses, 
And  bird-songs  carrolling  the  heavens  through ; 

Now  not  a  green  blade  flutters  as  he  passes, 
Nor  stays  one  thrush  to  hymn  a  sweet  adieu. 

Dry,  rattling  stalks  and  clumps  of  frozen  rushes 
Are  all  that  tremble  to  his  parting  tread ; 

From  cottage  windows  where  the  home-light  flushes 
No  face  looks  out,  no  last  farewell  is  said. 

Bare  are  the  walls  where  blushed  his  garden  roses, 
And  bare  the  tree-boughs  swaying  o'er  the  lawn  ; 

The  grape-hung  lattice  not  a  leaf  discloses, 
And  no  late  watcher  sighs  that  he  is  gone : — 


ABBA  GO  OLD  WO  OLSON.  571 

Gone  with  the  beauty  of  the  summer  morning, 

The  dreamy  loveliness  of  vanished  days, 
The  skj-'s  soft  glory  and  the  earth's  adorning, 

June's  rosy  light  and  Autumn's  mellow  haze. 

I  begged,  when  first  he  shone  with  lavish  splendor, 
A  prince  triumphant  come  to  rule  his  own, 

That  he  some  token  of  his  grace  would  render 
To  me,  a  suppliant,  on  his  bounty  thrown. 

He  bent  and  proffered,  without  stint  or  measure, 
The  utmost  that  my  daring  words  could  crave  ; 

With  full  arms  closing  round  each  hoarded  treasure 
My  lips  forgot  to  bless  the  hand  that  gave. 

He  made  the  evening  glad,  the  sunrise  golden, 

And  all  existence  richer  that  he  came  ; 
Yet  scarcely  finds  my  spirit,  thus  beholden, 

The  time  to  weave  this  chaplet  to  his  name. 

O  kingl}-  giver,  old  and  unattended, 

The  world's  poor  gratitude  is  not  for  thee  ; 

It  leaves  unsung  the  reign  so  nearly  ended, 
And  turns  to  hail  the  king  that  is  to  be. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

0  sweet  m}*  Love,  the  hour  is  late, 
The  moon  goes  down  in  silver  state, 
As  here  alone  I  watch  and  wait ; 

Though  far  from  thee,  my  lips  repeat 
In  whispers  low — Good  night,  n^  sweet ! 

The  house  is  still ;  but  o'er  the  gloom 
Of  starlit  gardens  faint  with  bloom 

1  lean  from  out  my  darkened  room, 
And  only  hear  the  roaming  breeze 
Move  softly  in  the  lilac-trees.         t 

Somewhere  beneath  these  gracious  skies 
M}"  bonny  Love  a-dreaming  lies, 
"With  slumber  brooding  in  her  eyes  : 
Go  seek  her,  happy  wind  so  free, 
And  kiss  her  folded  hands  for  me  ; 

Across  this  dome  of  silent  air, 

On  tides  of  floating  ether,  bear 

To  where  she  sleeps  my  whispered  prayer : — 


572  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  day  has  brought  the  night  forlorn, 
God  keep  thee,  little  Love,  till  dawn  ! 

While  life  is  dear,  and  love  Is  best, 
And  young  moons  drop  adown  the  west, 
My  lone  heart,  turning  to  its  rest, 
Beneath  the  stars  shall  whisper  clear, 
Good  night,  my  sweet ! — though  none  ma}'  hear. 


Cornet  &aglor  ^Fuller. 

Rev.  Homer  T.  Fuller  was  born  in  Lempster,  Nov.  15, 1838.  He  prepared  for  col 
lege  at  Kimball  Union  Academy,  and  graduated  at  Dartmouth  in  1864.  He  was  prin 
cipal  of  Fredonia  (N.  Y.)  Academy,  1864-7.  He  graduated  at  Union  (N.  Y.)  The- 
ological  Seminary,  May,  1869;  was  principal  of  St.  Jolmsbury  (Vt.)  Academy,  1871- 
82;  and  is  at  present  principal  of  Free  Institute,  Worcester,  Mass.  He  has  spent 
about  a  year  and  a  half  in  Europe,  chiefly  studying  its  educational  institutions. 


JEWELS. 

How  many  have  jewels,  gems  sparkling  with  light, 

Held  dear  to  the  heart,  and  oft  near  to  the  sight, 

To  which  the  affections  so  ardently  cling, 

That  to  tear  them  away  from  the  owner  would  bring 

Uncontrollable  sorrow  and  unalloyed  grief? 

Ah  !  many  have  jewels ; — and  could  we  each  leaf 

Of  the  human  heart  turn,  and  its  pages  peruse, 

Much  there  should  we  find  both  to  pain  and  amuse, 

In  beholding  the  jewels  of  various  kind, 

On  which  nameless  values  are  placed  by  the  mind. 

The  Brazilian  has  jewels ; — Golconda's  rich  mine 

Has  gilded  him  diamonds  and  rubies  that  shine 

With  a  brilliancy  which  is  befitting,  alone, 

To  encircle  the  brow  of  a  king  on  his  throne  ; 

A  kingdom  will  purchase,  and  give  in  return 

Drugged  wines  that  wilt  make  the  Brazilian's  cheek  burn, 

That  will  pande*  his  passions,  and  fiend-like,  enslave 

Both  his  body  and  soul,  till  he  sinks  in  the  grave. 

The  Persian  has  jewels ; — in  Oman's  green  wave 

The  pearl-diver  loves  his  dark  body  to  lave ; 

But  spends  for  narcotics  the  fruits  of  his  toil, 

Drinks,  quarrels,  and  dies  on  that  Mussulman  soil. 

The  Hindoo  has  jewels ; — the  famed  Koh-i-noor 

Was  the  cause  of  much  wrangling  and  many  a  war, 

'Till  the  conquering  Briton,  with  covetous  63-68, 

Obtained  and  bore  home  to  his  sovereign,  the  prize. 

Old  England  has  jewels  ; — in  Westminster's  pile, 

Is  a  room  well  environed  and  guarded  from  wile, 


HOMER  TAYLOR  FULLER.  573 

Where  gem-glittering  sceptres  and  crowns  of  pure  gold, 

Decked  with  amethysts,  sapphires  and  pearls,  you  behold. 

The  court   of  old  England  is  spangled  with  light, 

And  royalty's  trappings  quite  dazzle  the  sight ; 

But  while  3'ou  are  gazing  on  these  precious  stones, 

Just  think  of  the  debt  under  which  England  groans. 

Just  think  of  the  taxes,  and  all  the  church-rates, 

Of  tenants  ejected  from  landlords'  estates, 

Of  billows  of  misery,  on  which  those  are  tossed, 

And  say  if  these  jewels  are  worth  what  they  cost. 

But  come  home  to  New  England — on  Washington  Street, 

In  our  own  modern  Athens,  ere  long  we  shall  meet 

A  jewelled  hair-smirker,  well-known  to  the  crowd  ; 

A  little  behind,  with  a  carriage  as  proud 

As  would  well  grace  a  queen,  walks  the  belle  of  the  town. 

If  her  gloves  were  pulled  off,  and  her  shawl  would  fall  down, 

You  might  see  jewelled  fingers,  pins,  lockets,  and  chains, 

The  gifts  of  such  friends  as  have  more  gold  than  brains. 

Yea,  these  possess  jewels  ; — but  can  such  ever  give 

The  possessor  true  pleasure,  or  help  man  to  live 

As  he  should,  e'er  distinguished  by  real  inward  worth, 

As  befits  the  great  end  of  existence  on  earth? 

But  jewels  there  are  which  less  dazzle  the  eye, 

And  on  which  we  not  often  set  values  too  high. 

Good  health  is  a  jewel ; — then  tarnish  it  not ; 

For  Croesus  without  it  may  envy  your  lot, 

Possessing  this  boon,  in  the  most  humble  cot. 

True  friendship's  a  jewel ; — the  friend  that  will  share 

Adversity,  trial,  misfortune  and  care, 

When  these  come  upon  you,  should  alwaj^s  be  prized 

Above  all  the  presents  man  ever  devised. 

Good  looks  are  bright  jewels ; — when  won  well  they  show, 

In  the  face  of  the  owner,  the  wealth  'tis  to  know, 

Of  these,  there  is  one  which  to  man  has  been  given, 

The  diamond  of  life,  to  prepare  him  for  heaven. 

Benevolence,  temperance,  faith,  patience  and  truth 

With  virtue,  embellish  both  manhood  and  youth 

With  radience  brighter  than  rubies  can  give. 

The  mind  is  a  jewel ; — the  mind  that  will  live 

When  the  body  shall  crumble  to  dust  whence  it  came, 

A  gem  that  may  brighten  to  glory  and  fame, 

If  cut  by  true  wisdom,  and  polished  with  grace, 

Or  lose  all  its  lustre,  if  errors  deface. 

The  soul  which  is  trusting  to  Jesus  alone, 

And  seeks  for  no  good  in  itself  to  atone 

For  its  guilt,  aud  which  lives  for  the  glory  of  God, 


574  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

Shall  be  one  of  the  jewels  which  He,  in  His  word, 
Says,  He  will  make  up  in  that  terrible  day, 
When  earth  with  its  dwellers  shall  all  pass  away. 
Then  reader,  while  life  is  vouchsafed  to  you  here, 
Seek  not  the  vain  treasures  of  this  rolling  sphere  ; 
But,  ere  'tis  too  late  make  the  choice  of  that  prize 
Which  will  crown  3*011  forever  with  Christ  in  the  skies. 


"STRAIGHTWAY." 

Mark  1 : 20. 

"Straightway  he  calleth," — baptized  from  above 
Straightway  proclaimeth  his  message  of  love, 
Straightway  the  wilderness  traverseth  o'er, 
Straightway  resisteth  temptations  most  sore. 

"Straightway  he  calleth,"  as  soon  as  He  came, 
Waiting  to  know  neither  title  nor  name  ; 
Asking  not  readiness,  fitness,  more  faith, 
But  following,  obeying  whatever  He  saith. 

Straightway  they  followed,  forsaking  their  nets, 
Uttering  no  murmurs,  nor  sighs,  nor  regrets 
For  fishes,  or  fortunes,  or  friends  they  had  left ; 
For  with  Jesus,  of  naught  were  they  really  bereft. 

Onward  they  followed  through  storm  and  through  calm, 
Onward  they  pressed  before  sword,  stake  and  flame  ; 
So  came  the  kingdom,  and  so  were  there  won 
Victories  and  crowns  for  the  crucified  Son. 

"Straightwa}T  he  calleth," — yes,  now,  as  of  }X>re, 
Straightway  He  pleadeth,  put  nothing  before, 
Straightway,  to-day,  choose  thou  the  "good  part," 
Straightway,  to-day,  give  O  give  Him  thine  heart. 


lEmtlg  <£rai)am 


Miss  Havward,  the  daughter  of  Dea.  Amhersf  and  Sarah  (Fish)  Haywanl,  was 
born  in  Gil  ram,  February  8,  1838,  and  died  in  that  town,  April  16,  1866.  She  receiv 
ed  au  academic  education  at  Meriden  and  New  Ipswich.  Most  of  her  poems  were 
written  for  special  occasions  and  were  published  in  the  local  newspapers.  A 
short  time  before  her  death  she  wrote  the  following  stanza  in  a  friend's  album  : 

Those  wide  celestial  gates 

Seem  almost  in  my  eight  ; 
Beyond  whose  portals  loved  ones  dwell, 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 


EMIL  T  GRAHAM  HA  YWABD.  575 

THE  WREATH  OF  LOVE. 

Oh,  twine  a  wreath  of  love  for  me, 

And  place  it  on  my  brow  ; 
There  let  me  wear  it  day  by  day, 

Forever  bright  as  now. 

The  flowers  of  love  are  very  fair, 

Though  gentle  be  their  hue  ; 
They  never  fade  when  once  in  bloom  ; 

They're  ever  fresh  with  dew. 

A  wreath  of  love  alike  becomes 

The  child  of  want  and  wealth  ; 
It  gives  a  charm  that  still  is  felt 

In  hours  of  pain  or  health. 

Then  gather  now  the  flowers  of  love, 

And  weave  a  wreath  for  me  ; 
I'll  wear  it  still  where'er  I  go 

Upon  the  land  or  sea. 

'Twill  be  my  passport  through  the  world,  • 

Where'er  my  footsteps  bend ; 
'Twill  gain  me  entrance  through  the  gate 

At  this  lone  journey's  end. 

There  I  shall  meet  the  pure  and  blest, 

And,  sitting  down  with  them, 
The  wreath  of  love  will  then  become 

An  angel's  diadem. 


LINES 

Suggested  t>y  reading  "Jane  Eyre." 

Lonely  and  weary  my  footsteps  are  straying, 

While  round  me  the  damp  winds  of  evening  are  playing, 

And  over  my  heart  cold  shadows  are  falling, 

While  a  voice  deep  within  for  my  lost  one  is  calling, 

"Come  back,  oh  come  back,  my  darling,  to  me, 

And  cheer  the  lone  heart  that  is  aching  for  thee." 

You  have  wandered  away,  you  have  left  me  alone, 
As  if  my  poor  heart  were  nothing  but  stone  ; 
But  'tis  bleeding  and  breaking  in  anguish  to-day, 
While  you  amid  strangers  are  now  far  away ; 
Your  own  heart  will  weep,  for  your  cruelty  tore 
Yourself  from  the  hopes  you  will  cherish  no  more. 


576  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

My  love,  though  so  wild,  was  most  tender  and  true, 
I  would  love  and  protect  you  life's  journey  through. 
Then  come  back,  oh  come  back,  my  darling,  to  me, 
And  cheer  the  lone  heart  that  is  waiting  for  thee. 

REPLY. 

A  well-known  voice  rings  in  my  ear 

In  accents  wild  and  deep  ; 
That  sound  has  often  haunted  me 

In  silent  hours  of  sleep. 

It  is  the  voice  of  one  I  love, 

Its  tones  I've  often  heard  ; 
It  thrills  each  fibre  of  my  frame, 

At  ever}^  spoken  word. 

It  echoes  through  the  forest  deep, 

And  over  vale  and  hill ; 
In  earnest  tones  I  hear  my  name 

Ring  through  the  evening  still. 

yes,  I'm  coming,  wait  for  me  ; 

My  heart  is  ever  true  ; 
Oh,  I  will  come,  but  tell  me  where, 

Oh,  tell  me,  where  are  you? 


$.  Hilton. 

Mrs.  Tilton  was  born  in  Tuftonborough,  July  10, 1839.  Her  father,  Abel  Heath, 
was  a  minister  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  was  known  to  the  Methodists 
throughout  New  England.  He  died  during  a  session  of  Conference,  in  Nashua,  in 
1852,  leaving  a  widow  and  eight  children.  From  this  time  his  daughter,  Lyilia,  re 
sided  in  Manchester.  She  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  there,  and  in  the  New 
Hampshire  Conference  Seminary,  and  was  employed  for  several  years  as  a  tenrher 
in  Henniker  Academy  and  other  schools.  In  1806  she  married  Mr.  R.  N.  Tilton, 
anil  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  where  she  has  since  resided.  She  is  well  known 
in  literary  circles,  and  her  poems  have  been  received  with  favor. 


ALL  THINGS. 

Romans  viii :  28. 

All  things  work  for  our  good  : — the  seeming  ill, 
The  griefs, — so  hard  to  bear! — the  wrongs  that  chill 
Our  trust  in  human  hearts  ;  for  on  the  best 
Come  all  these  evils.  Can  faith  bear  the  test? 

Aye  I  though  our  eyes  see  only  loss  and  pain, 
Incessant  care  and  toil  and  little  gain  ; 
And  though  the  crumbs,  while  others  break  the  bread, 
Tell  not  of  blessing,  but  of  woe  instead  ; 


LTD  I  A  H.   TILT  ON.  577 


Somehow,  somewhere,  an  alchemy  divine 
Shall  into  blessings,  even  ills,  combine  ; 
Somewhere,  the  stories  saddest  here  below 
Shall  end  in  joy,  the  brighter  for  their  woe. 

Is  there  not  pledge  of  future  life  and  bliss, 
As  well  as  saddest  earthly  truth  in  this  ? 
If  good  men,  here,  from  ills  have  no  defense, 
Heaven  must  await  them  with  sure  recompense. 

To  what  glad  heights,  then,  should  our  faith  attain  ! 
God  might  have  made  the  way  to  heaven  plain, 
And  left  no  flowers  of  promise  by  the  way, 
Like  this  on  which  our  sad  hearts  rest  to-day. 

But,  one  by  one,  the  promises — descried 
If  we  but  lift  the  leaves  wherein  they  hide — 
Make  us  forget  the  roughness  of  the  way  ; 
And  bring  us  love  and  blessing  day  by  day. 


THE  BRIDAL  WREATH. 

We're  married  !  O  never  a  princess  of  old 
More  proudly  wore  crown,  though  of  jewels  and  gold, 
Than  wear  I  to-day,  as  you  make  'me  }rour  wife, 
This  emblem,  that  crowns  me  the  queen  of  your  life. 

The  words  are  all  spoken  that  bind  us  as  one, 
The  journey  together  is  gladly  begun  ; 
Yet  know  we  not  whither,  nor  know  we  how  strong 
Our  hearts,  for  the  journey  we  hope  may  be  long. 

"Love,  honor,  and  keep :"  as  if  that  were  a  task  ! 
"Obey"  is  left  out ;  for  your  love  does  not  ask 
A  servant,  but  one  who  shall  stand  at  your  side, 
Your  co-worker,  equal  in  hope  and  in  pride. 

I've  questioned  my  heart,  brought  the  lens  of  my  love 
To  bear  on  all  sides,  seeking  light  from  above 
To  show  me  if  aught  could  hold  me,  as  your  wife, 
From  being  a  blessing  and  joy  to  your  life. 

No  thorns  has  this  wreath,  but  its  smiles  pass  away ; 
Full  blown  are  its  flowers — nearer  thus  to  decay — 
Are  the}7,  then,  true  symbols?  Are  joys  at  their  birth 
To  fade  like  these  frail  things  we  pluck  from  the  earth  ? 

Nay !  think  not  I  scorn  them  ;  they  are  what  they  seem, 
Bright,  beautiful  emblems  of  love's  happy  dream  ; 


578  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

And  though  all  their  beauty  may  fade  with  to-day, 
The  wreath  on  my  heart,  love  will  keep  fresh  for  aye. 

We  meet  life  together ;  as  neither,  alone, 
Had  tasted  the  bliss  even  now  all  our  own ; 
So,  through  all  the  future,  the  heights  we  attain 
Will  be  those  we  struggle,  together,  to  gain. 

I  know  cares  await  us,  but  do  not  forget 
Love  guards  us,  far  higher  and  purer  than  yet 
Our  human  hearts  know  ;  so,  here  at  your  side, 
I  look  up,  and  heaven  seems  crowning  your  bride. 

Ah,  never  a  queen,  in  the  proud  days  of  old, 
More  proudly  wore  crown,  though  of  jewels  and  gold, 
Than  wear  1  to-day,  as  you  make  me  your  wife, 
This  emblem  that  crowns  me  the  queen  of  your  life. 


FURNISHING  THE  HOUSE. 

Nay,  haste  not,  my  friend,  to  arrange,  for  vain  pride, 
Such  rooms  as  wealth  only  could  give  to  your  bride  ; 
And  make  no  apology  ;  every  one  knows 
Rich  fruit  is  not  gathered  before  the  tree  grows. 

Your  neighbors  are  older ;  and  many  long  years 
Have  garnered  the  wealth  that  so  lavish  appears  ; 
Jump  not  the  low  rounds,  lest  you  stumble  and  fall ; 
And  sacrifice  home,  pride  and  honor,  withal. 

O  dare  to  be  happy  in  spite  of  bare  floors 

And  furnishings  plain  ;  and  open  no  doors 

To  aught  that  can  hang  on  your  shoulders  a  debt ; 

And  these  same  proud  neighbors  will  envy  }rou,  yet. 

'You  have,  what  the  proudest  would  go  far  to  gain, 
Youth,  health,  and  good-nature,  and  lives  without  stain, 
A  smile  for  each  other,  no  losses  to  weep, 
No  skeleton's  shadow  behind  you  to  creep. 

No  carpets  too  rich  for  the  weariest  tread  ; 
No  rooms  to  keep  closed,  as  if  tombs  for  the  dead  ; 
No  mortgage  to  fear,  and  no  unneeded  cares  ; 
You  take  the  outside  things  of  life  upon  shares. 

No  palace  is  yours,  but  each  heart  hath  its  throne  ; 
No  land,  but  the  landscape  all  smiles,  as  your  own  ; 
And  all  things  below,  with  the  all  things  above, 
Are  yours  ;  if  to  God  you  are  true,  and  to  love. 


LTDIA  H.  TILT  ON.  579 

THE  KISS  AT  THE  DOOR. 

Nay,,  darling,  I  cannot  "love  thee 

As  the  morning  we  were  wed  !" 
Too  fondly  my  heart  is  nurtured, 

Too  much  upon  manna  fed, 
To  shrink  to  the  old-time  measure : 

Although  I  scarcely  know 
How  love,  that  the  years  have  strengthened, 

Found  so  much  room  to  grow. 

I  know  when  the  whispered,  "darling" 

Woke  to  a  happier  life 
The  heart  that  since  has  listened 

To  the  added  word  of  "wife," 
I  fancied  the  very  angels 

Could  not  have  loved  }'ou  more  ; 
But  now  a  love  far  greater 

Shall  kiss  you,  at  the  door. 

I  know  you  are  often  weary 

With  business  care  and  strife  ; 
But  you  always  bring  home  sunshine 

And  blessing,  to  your  wife. 
Each  trial  but  serves  to  strengthen 

The  bond  that  was  strong  before  : 
And  I  watch,  as  the  shadows  lengthen, 

To  kiss  you,  at  the  door. 

Our  "God  is  love,"  my  darling ; 

He  plants,  with  many  flowers, 
The  paths,  in  which  his  children 

Must  pass  their  earthly  hours  : 
Our  path  seems  each  day  brighter 

With  light  from  the  unseen  shore  ; 
And  gratet'ulty  I  linger 

To  kiss  you,  at  the  door. 

Each  life  hath  its  minor  cadence  ; 

The  sad  with  the  sweet  must  blend  ; 
And  even  to  heart  communings 

Come  whisperings  of  the  end  : 
But,  oh,  if  the  angels  call  me 

First,  to  the  shining  shore, 
I  will  watch  and  wait  to  welcome, 

And  kiss  you,  at  the  door. 


580  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

OTlara  13.  ®eatl). 

Mrs.  Heath,  whose  maiden  name  was  Sawyer,  was  born  In  Manchester,  July  28, 
1837,  and  with  the  exception  of  a  few  years  has  always  resided  in  that  city.  >>h<; 
was  educated  in  the  schools  there.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two  she  became  the  wife 
of  Mr.  Robert  Heath.  She  began  to  write  poetry  at  an  early  age,  but  published 
nothing  before  she  was  seventeen.  She  then  wrote  for  the  Boston  Olive  lii-andi 
and  other  papers,  generally  under  an  assumed  name.  In  1881  an  elegant  volume  of 
her  poems  was  published,  entitled  "Water  Lilies  and  other  Poems."  Mrs.  Heath 
finds  her  inspiration  in  everyday  thoughts  and  experiences,  domestic  jovs  and 
sorrows,  simple  friendships  and  the  hopes  and  consolations  of  religion.  In  her 
picturing  of  natural  scenes  and  rural  life  she  is  true  to  nature  and  very  pleasing. 
Her  verse  is  melodious  and  graceful  in  expression. 


WATER  LILIES. 

O  regal  roses  so  bright  and  fair ! 
Filling  with  fragrance  the  balmy  air, 
Glowing  in  beauty  on  every  hand, 
Sweeter  than  dreams  of  a  fairy  land  ; 
'Tis  well  to  come  when  the  year  is  new, 
In  its  freshest  green,  and  its  brightest  blue. 

In  early  spring  'twas  the  violet 

"We  searched  for  in  woods  and  meadows  wet, 

Arbutus,  too,  with  its  pink  and  white, 

Was  ever  a  source  of  new  delight ; 

While  the  purple  pansies  the  gardens  brought 

Were  sweeter  than  all,  we  sometimes  thought. 

But  the  heart  of  the  summer  brings  a  glow 
No  other  time  in  the  year  can  know. 
We  seek  the  lake,  and  the  little  boat, 
And  over  the  waters  dreaming  float, 
To  gather  the  lilies,  starry-eyed, 
That  rest  on  the  shining,  lapsing  tide. 

What  is  as  fair  of  all  flowers  that  bloom  ? 
What  is  as  rare,  with  its  rare  perfume  ? 
What  is  as  pure,  with  its  home  of  waves? 
What  is  as  fresh  that  the  sunbeam  laves? 
Perfect  in  grace  and  in  loveliness  ! 
What  is  as  dainty  and  sweet  as  this  ? 

How  spotless  the  pearly  leaves  that  fold 
O'er  the  hidden  and  perfumed  heart  of  gold  ! 
Like  faiiy  castles  they  seem  to  float, 
From  the  shocks  and  sins  of  life  remote ; 
Anchored,  though  wind  and  wave  go  by, 
With  an  upward  look  at  the  azure  sky. 


CLAEA  B.  HEATH.  581 


The  brightest  morn  that  my  childhood  knew 
Was  one  on  the  waves  so  dark  and  blue. 
How  rich  I  was,  and  how  gay  and  glad, 
Though  the  gold  of  the  lilies  was  all  I  had  ! 
"We've  gathered  little  by  life's  highway 
As  pure  as  the  treasures  of  that  fair  day. 

Sweet  water  lilies,  of  white  and  gold, 

That  spring  from  a  bed  so  dark  and  cold  ; 

With  never  a  taint  of  their  lowly  birth, 

And  never  a  touch  of  their  mother  earth ; 

The  heart  of  the  summer  would  still  have  shone 

Though  never  another  flower  had  blown. 


BLUEBERRYING. 

The  clouds  hung  low,  for  they  promised  rain, 
The  mist  encircled  the  far-off  hill ; 

Behind  us  the  city  spread  far  and  wide, 
Before  us  the  country  broad  and  still. 

The  tall  grass  waved  in  a  gentle  breeze, 
The  daisies  blossomed  around  my  feet ; 

I  heard  the  song  of  the  honej'-bees, 

For  the  clover-tops  were  red  and  sweet. 

They  were  making  hay  in  a  field  we  passed,  • 
The  mower  stood  in  a  shady  nook 

And  sharpened  anew  his  shining  scythe, 
Just  stopping  to  give  us  a  careless  look. 

We  passed  by  a  farm-house,  old  and  quaint, 
The  well  was  close  to  the  dusty  street ; 

I  thought  of  the  shady  curb  "at  home," 

The  moss-grown  rocks,  and  the  water  sweet. 

We  followed  a  path  through  a  pasture  old, 
Where  alders,  mullein,  and  hard-hack  grew ; 

It  led  us  up  to  the  sloping  hill ; 

We  knew  we  must  climb  for  the  berries  blue. 

Close  under  the  leaves  of  a  tiny  oak, 
The  sweetest  spot  for  a  bird  to  rest, 

I  found  four  eggs  of  an  azure  hue, 
Reposing  soft  in  a  downy  nest. 

Our  pails  were  large,  and  the  berries  small, 
The  sun  soon  scattered  the  mist  away 


582  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  dog  came  not  at  our  fretful  call, 
But  panting  under  the  bushes  lay. 

How  often  had  I,  when  a  little  child, 
Gone  benying  just  such  days  as  this  ; 

And  yet  I  was  seldom  weary  then, 

No  matte*  how  warm  the  bright  sun's  kiss. 

The  berries  seemed  larger,  and  bluer  too, 
That  I  gathered  then  on  the  green  hill-side  ; 

And  the  tin}"  pond  where  the  lilies  grew, 
I  fancied  looked  like  the  ocean  wide. 

When  next  we  go,  may  the  soft  winds  blow, 
The  berries  larger  and  riper  be, 

And  fleec}*  clouds  in  the  deep  blue  sky 
O'er-shadow  valley  and  hill  for  me. 


TRANSFORMED. 

Death  crowns  us  all.     How  soon  as  interest  wakes 
In  one  bereft  of  friends,  unknown  to  fame, 

When  Death  the  weary  pilgrim  feet  o'ertakes  ; 
A  new  born  wave  of  awe  sweeps  round  his  name, 

As  when  some  sudden  breeze  the  tree-top  wakes ; 
Forgotten  all  his  wrong,  or  sin,  or  shame, 

Even  the  hardest  heart  some  pity  shows, 

And  sighs  with  solemn  bated  breath,  "Who  knows?" 

Who  knows  what  might  have  been,  had  fortune  paved 
His  way  with  buds  of  hope  and  blossoms  fair? 

If  but  a  soft  Arcadian  wind  had  laved 
The  heated  brow  and  left  its  kisses  there  ? 

Who  knows  but  that  he  may  have  been  enslaved 
By  mighty  powers  that  throng  the  earth  and  air 

Such  as  we  have  not  met  with  ?  Ah  !  who  knows 

How  strong  life's  under-current  ebbs  and  flows? 

The  little  child  that  on  our  bosom  lay 

A  few  brief  days,  and  left  us  sick  and  sad, 

Calls  with  a  stronger  voice  to  us  to-day 

Than  those  who  make  our  hearth-stone  gay  and  glad. 

We  clung  the  closer  as  they  passed  away, 
We  did  not  realize  the  joy  we  had. 

Death's  sombre  gate  of  silence  closes  quite, 

In  haste  as  if  to  shut  out  heaven's  light. 


CLAEA  S.  HEATH.  583 


How  perfect  are  our  dead !  no  eyes  so  blue 
As  those  forever  closed  in  dreamless  sleep ; 

No  lily  hands,  though  waxen  in  their  hue, 
,  Can  beckon  to  us  o'er  life's  slimy  deep, 

With  half  the  power  of  those  pale  hands  we  knew, 
That  now  are  lost  to  us  where  shadows  creep  ;  j 

Tender  and  true,  their  follies  known  no  more, 

They  stand  transformed  upon  the  other  shore. 


SEA  MOSSES. 

"Bring  me,  I  said,  a  breath  of  the  sea." 

Was  this  the  fringe  of  a  sea-nymph's  robe, 
Caught  in  the  door  of  a  coral  cave, 

Loosened  by  waters  that  span  the  globe, 
And  tossed  ashore  on  a  foamy  wave  ? 

Was  that  the  tip  of  a  dancing  plume 

That  decked  the  head  of  a  mermaid  queen  ? 

Or  refuse  threads  from  an  elfin  loom, 
Matching  her  mantle  of  pale  sea  green  ? 

Were  these  the  trees  of  a  mimic  isle, 
Never  at  loss  for  the  sun  or  dew  ? 

Or  only  the  branches  that  decked  awhile 
A  fairy  boat  with  its  fairy  crew? 

Are  these  the  strands  of  a  carpet  soft, 
Richer  than  mortal  has  ever  trod, 

Freed  by  the  current  and  borne  aloft, 
To  show  us  the  hidden  work  of  God? 

O  little  mosses,  perfect  and  fair ! 

Emerald,  crimson,  and  brown,  and  jet, 
Fashioned  with  infinite  skill  and  care, 

The  charm  of  the  sea  is  with  }-ou  yet.- 

Nature,  propelled  by  the  Master's  hand, 
Cares  for  the  unseen  as  well  as  seen, 

Touches  each  part  with  her  magic  wand, 
Matches  each  stroke  with  a  stroke  as  keen. 

Had  we  but  eyes  for  the  hidden  glow, 

Thrown  on  each  page  of  her  wondrous  book, 

Were  we  a  tithe  of  her  beauty  to  know, 
Crude  would  the  best  of  our  efforts  look. 


584  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

Thanks,  little  mosses,  daintily  fine, 
The  fancies  are  sweet  ye  bring  to  me  ; 

Thanks  to  the  hand  that  transferred  to  mine, 
With  3"our  fairy  fronds,  a  breath  of  the  sea. 


THE  GREAT  REWARD. 

1  Cor.  II :  9. 

"E}-e  hath  not  seen."     O  human  eye  ! 

Bewildered  by  the  earth  below, 
The  matchless  glories  of  the  sky, 

The  shining  waves  that  ebb  and  flow, 
The 'flowers  with  all  their  varied  tints, 

Brighter  than  ever  monarch  wore, — 
Are  these  fair  things  indeed  but  hints 

Of  what  our  Father  has  in  store  ? 

"Ear  hath  not  heard."     0  human  ear  ! 

Charmed  with  the  music  of  the  sea, 
Filled  with  the  sounds  that  greet  thee  here, 

Rejoicing  in  their  harmon}-, 
Entranced  by  every  word  and  tone 

From  loving  lips  that  rise  and  fall, 
Hast  thou  indeed,  then,  never  known 

The  heavenly  sounds  that  will  enthrall  ? 

"No  heart  conceives."     Strange  human  heart, 

Proud  of  thine  unseen  depths  below, 
Buoyed  by  the  hopes  that  from  thee  dart, 

Is  there  still  more  for  thee  to  know  ? 
Capacious  heart,  that  burns  and  thrills, 

And  throbs  again  with  ecstasy, — 
When  earth-born  joys  such  caverns  fill, 

How  deep  the  heavenly  tide  must  be  ! 

"For  those  who  love  him."     Weary  soul, 

Drink  deeply  of  the  promised  bliss. 
How  round  and  beautiful  the  whole 

Of  one  great  promise  such  as  this ! 
O  wondrous  ocean  of  God's  love  ! 

Beyond  all  comprehension  wide  ! 
Thy  waves  will  bear  the  saints  above, 

Where  all  are  more  than  satisfied. 


STEPHEN  H.  THAYER.  585 


S.  H.  Thayer  was  born  in  the  town  of  New  Ipswich,  December  16, 1839.  His  early 
life  was  spent  in  his  native  place  where  he  attended  school  at  New  Ipswich  Apple- 
ton  Academy,  one  of  the  oldest  institutions  of  the  kind  in  New  Hampshire, 
from  which  he  graduated  in  1857.  He  left  his  home  early  the  following  year, 
and  after  spending  a  year  or  more  in  a  counting  house  in  Boston,  removed 
to  New  York  city,  where  for  six  years  he  was  employed  in  a  banking  house 
connected  with  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange.  In  1864  he  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  Exchange  and  very  soon  after  united  with  others  in  organizing  a  banking 
and  commission  house  in  which  he  has  been  a  partner  for  seventeen  years.  He 
owns  a  beautiful  suburban  residence  near  Tarrytown  on  the  Hudson  River,  on 
an  elevation  overlooking  fifty  miles  of  river  view,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  Sleepy- 
Hollow  region  made  famous  by  Washington  Irying's  legendary  tales,  as  well  as 
classical,  by  the  Provincial  and  Revolutionary  history  of  our  country.  In  spite  of 
the  most  exacting  attention  to  his  business  interests,  Mr.  Thayer  has  contributed  a 
lai-ge  number  of  poems,  during  the  past  ten  years,  to  various  periodicals  here  and 
abroad,  and  is  still  writing  _with  the  intention,  at  an  early  day,  of  collecting  his 

Eoetic  work  for  publication  in  book  form.    Several  of  his  poems  may  be  found  in 
ongfellow's  collection  of  "Poems  of  Places"  published  a  few  years  ago. 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  SOWHEGAN. 

The  summer  air  is  sweet  with  balm, 

The  river  like  a  mirror  lies, 
Reflecting  back  the  tranquil  calm 

Of  Hampshire's  golden  sunset  skies. 

The  waters  murmur  on,  the  same, 

Their  melodies  of  ages  long ; 
The  hills,  so  often  called  by  name, 

Still  answer  back  the  voice  of  song. 

The  forest  trail  that  in  the  days 

Of  youth  I  roamed,  the  sinuous  stream 

Along  whose  marge,  by  devious  ways, 
I  wandered  in  my  earlier  dream ; 

And  all  the  slumberous  solitude 

Within  the  old  familiar  glen, 
Are  as  they  were  of  yore,  and  brood 

AVithin  my  spirit  now  as  then. 

I  hear  the  sylvan  voices  break 

Far  in  the  deeps  of  birch  and  pine, 

Where  summer's  winged  songsters  wake 
To  thrill  again  with  notes  divine. 

I  stroll  along  the  pebbly  strand, 
Or  wander  o'er  the  drowsy  steep  ; 

The  meadow,  lake,  and  slope  expand 
In  hazy  harmonies  of  sleep. 

And  on  the  grassy  ledge  I  lie, 
Unmindful  of  the  world  beyond, 


586  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Linked  to  the  heart  of  memory, 
And  sweetly  cherishing  the  bond. 

I  close  my  eyes,  and  up  the  stream 
Of  life  return,  in  fancy  dear, 

To  those  fair  days  of  youth  and  dream 
When  oft  I  rowed  the  river  here  ; 

Until,  oblivious  of  the  years, 

Afar  through  mists  of  world  and  time, 

A  phantom  boatman  steers  and  veers 
His  barque,  like  music  in  a  rhyme. 

His  form  is  lithe,  his  63*6  is  keen, 

His  song  keeps  time  to  dipping  oars  ; 

He  sings  with  heart  and  faith  serene, 
And  leaves  behind  the  merging  shores : 

He  leaves  behind  the  hedge  and  ferns, 
The  sheltering  trees  and  mimic  slopes, 

As  in  his  soul  a  passion  burns 

That  stirs  his  life  with  larger  hopes. 

His  homely  craft  recoils  and  shifts 
Where  deeper  currents  speed  him  on, 

Then  down  the  broadening  waters  drifts, 
And  rounds  the  point  and  he  is  gone. 

And  he  is  gone  for  a}*e  and  aye  ; 

He  never  more  as  boy  returns, 
But  now,  in  sober  manhood's  day, 

He  plucks  again  the  river  ferns. 

A  sterner  world  of  stress  and  pain, 

A  world  of  love  and  thought  and  strife, 

Of  storm  and  calm,  of  loss  and  gain, 
Has  knit  his  heart  to  other  life. 

Yet  here,  in  memory's  sweet  repose, 

Where  once  his  halcyon  hopes  were  born, 

He  sings  his  song  of  these,  for  those 
Who  then  were  here,  but  now  are  gone. 


THE  BELLS  OF  NYACK. 

The  lurking  shadows,  dim  and  mute, 
Fall  vaguely  on  the  dusk}-  river ; 

Vexed  breezes  play  a  phantom  lute 

Athwart  the  waves  that  curl  and  quiver. 


STEPHEN  H.  THATER.  587 

And  hedged  against  an  amber  light 

The  lone  hills  cling,  in  vain  endeavor 
To  touch  the  curtained  clouds  of  night 

That,  weird-like,  form  and  fade  forever. 

The  sad  moon  bathes  with  silvery  beams 

The  hush  of  twilight,  bated  breath, 
While  fallow  thoughts,  unfathomed  dreams, 

Weave  nn'stic  webs  with  life  and  death. 

Then  break  upon  the  blessed  calm, 

(Deep  dying  melodies  of  even,) 
Those  Nyack  bells ;  like  some  sweet  psalm, 

They  float  along  the  fields  of  heaven. 

I  know  not  that  their  liquid  knells 

Bear  less  of  joy's  than  griefs  refrain ; 
Yet  from  their  echoing  spirit  swells, 

Methinks,  a  melancholy  strain. 

As  if  a  throb  from  out  the  wave 

Had  mingled  with  their  airy  motion  ; 
A  song  from  some  fair  mermaid's  cave, 

A  sigh  from  some  far  depth  of  ocean. 

The  forests  add  their  sylvan  lay, 

The  night-birds  lend  their  plaintive  rounds, 

The  perfumed  flowers  that  fill  the  day 
Add  incense  to  the  muffled  sounds. 

And  now  I  hear  a  marriage  chime, 

Commingling  with  responsive  voices, 
A  festal  song  completes  the  rhyme, 

As  heart  with  wedded  heart  rejoices. 

Then,  lo !  the  shadows  deepen  down, 

And  veil,  in  nun-like  darkness,  all ; 
Toll  slowly,  bells,  o'er  sea  and  town, 

For  death  has  hung  its  gloomy  pall. 

Dark  fancy  hears  lamenting  moans, 

And  voices  hush,  and  hearts  are  broken, 

And  in  thy  knells  are  widowed  tones, — 
A  prayer  for  some  wild  woe  unspoken. 

Then  golden-like,  along  the  west, 

A  bright  reflection  lightens  mine, 
And  visions  in  my  thought  a  rest 

That  mingles  in  these  sounds  of  thine. 


588  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Now  laden  with  a  nameless  balm, 
Now  musical  with  song  thou  art ; 

I  tune  thee  by  an  inward  charm, 

And  make  thee  minstrel  of  my  heart. 

Oh,  bells  of  Nyack,  faintly  toll 
Across  the  starr}'-lighted  sea ; 

Thy  murmurs  thrill  a  thirsty  soul, 
And  wing  a  heavenly  hymn  to  me. 


A  JUNE  SONG. 

A  heart,  in  the  June-day  of  summer, 

Had  tasted  the  violet's  lips, 
Had  stolen,  from  every  new  comer, 

The  hone}7  that  lover-heart  sips, 
Had  traversed  the  low-lands,  the  high-lands, 

To  drink  of  the  dewy  sweets  there, 
Had  wandered  through  near-lands  and  far-lands, 

The  blossoms  of  summer  to  share  ; 

Till  longing  and  lonely,  a-sighing 

For  love  of  a  love  that  was  vain, 
For  a  bliss  that  ever  was  dying, 

For  a  joy  that  covered  a  pain, 
It  winged  its  far  flight  over  mountain, 

It  spanned  the  purple  sea-plain, 
It  sped  to  the  lity-brimmed  fountain 

Of  the  passion  of  youth  again  ; 

It  listened  for  a  murmur,  a  laughter, 

It  dreamt  of  a  fair}'  face  there, 
'    It  plead  for  an  answer,  once  softer 

Than  songs  on  the  summer-sea  air ; 
But  the  voice  was  hushed  in  the  gloaming, 

The  form  and  the  spirit  were  gone, 
The  face  in  the  mirror-fount,  foaming, 

Had  melted  to  mist  with  the  morn. 

The  June-day  of  summer  was  over, 
The  autumn  had  withered  the  May, 

The  bloom  of  the  heart  of  the  lover 
Had  faded  forever  away. 

TWILIGHT  CONTRASTED. 

Thy  passive  hour  is  often  full  of  deeps ; 
The  sun  has  left  its  after-glow  far  east ; 


STEPHEN  H.  THAYEB.  589 

0  Twilight !  thou  art  stolen  beauty  !  least 
And  last  of  day, — an  amber-calm,  that  keeps 
The  soul  inlit  with  heaven,  and  strangely  steeps 

With  low  imbosomed  song,  (true  minstrel  feast,) 

The  fairy  imagery  of  thought ;  released 
From  sterner  ways,  the  dreamy  fancy  sleeps 
In  revery ;  the  world  is  hushed  and  spirit 

Answers  spirit  in  language  of  its  own, 
Without  the  whisper,  or  the  ear  to  hear  it, 

As  one  alone,  who  is  not  all  alone ; 
And  stilly  voices  echo  on  the  air, 
And  silent  songs  melt  into  silent  prayer. 

I  hear  the  swift  winds  sweep  along  the  west, 
Invisible — heaven's  armies  put  to  flight ! — 
First  far,  then  near,  their  giant  wings  affright 
The  wailing  forest  trees  that  vainly  breast 
Their  torrent-force.     And  yet  the  sound  is  rest ; 

1  love  it — fierce,  defiant—in  its  might, 

It  lulls,  like  roar  of  ocean  waves  at  night ; 
Companion-like,  I  love  its  tumults  best, 
For  I  am  weak,  and  strong,  and  nothing  long, 

Fretting  against  the  narrow  walls  of  sense, 
Impatient  of  the  unimpassioned  throng, 

Half-prisoned  by  dull  fate,  but  still  intense 
With  will  to  conquer  and  compel — a  power 
That  tempts,  and  yet  eludes  me  every  hour ! 


UNINTERPRETED. 

Within  the  vale-embosomed  wold, 

Low  droop  the  tasselled  chestnut  boughs  ; 
Soft  lullabies  of  sweet  repose 

Still  murmur,  as  in  days  of  old. 

Deep  in  the  sleeping  solitude, 
Half-muffled  in  its  ferny  dream, 
The  silver  ripple  of  the  stream 

Whispers  its  ancient  interlude  ; 

While,  far  aloft,  the  bus}7  wren, 
Or  thrush,  or  lark,  in  luteful  strain, 
Flings  wild  its  pangs  of  joy  or  pain, 

In  echoes  through  the  hollow  glen. 


590  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  here  awhile  I  muse  in  thought, 
How,  through  the  nameless  eons  gone, 
The  circling  birds  have  sung  alone, 

In  language  man  was  never  taught. 

Thick  sheltered  from  the  common  way, 
Who  knows  what  airy  spirit  thrills 
The  feathered  throat,  what  rapture  fills, 

Or  tender  vows  inspire  its  lay  ? 

Who  knows  the  lyrical  caress, — 
An  art  by  man  scarce  understood, — 
B}'  which  the  birdling's  heart  is  wooed 

To  love's  delirium  of  bliss  ? 

Who  knows  the  sadness  that  it  sings  ? 

Its  chidings  to  its  lover-mate? 

Or  fond  reply,  or  scornful  hate 
Marked  in  the  flutter  of  its  wings  ? 

What  sighs  intone  its  music  so  ? 

What  passions  tremble  in  its  song? 

What  questionings  of  right  and  wrong 
Impel  its  answer,  "Yes"  or  "No"? 

What  code  of  wisdom  teaches  it? 

What  yearnings  fill  its  aching  breast  ? 

AVhat  glory  of  celestial  rest, 
Eternal,  in  its  soul  is  lit? 

Who  knows,  ah  !  who?    We  can  but  guess 

An  inly  answer,  as  we  sing, 

Or  think,  a  vain  imagining  ; 
But  all  without  is  nothingness. 

Yet,  might  I  know — or  foul,  or  fair, 
Whatever  fortune  wins  the  day — 
That  birds  would  fill  my  wandering  way 

With  their  wild  songs,  I  would  not  care. 


GREAT  TEMPLE  OF  KARNAK. 

Thou  art  not  now  ;  a  far  off  age  did  knell 
A  greater  death  that  marked  thy  lesser  fall, 
Thou  mighty  temple,  reared  by  Egypt's  thrall ! 
What  grandeur  do  thy  silent  ruins  tell, 
Wherein  a  thousand  buried  arts  do  dwell? 
O  Karnak !  wqndrous  e'en  thy  mould'riug  wall, 


STEPHEN  H.  THAYEE.  591 

Whose  countless  crumbling  monuments  recall 
The  mystic  splendor  of  thine  ancient  spell ! 
But  wherefore  name  thy  praise  !  Forevermore, 
As  ever,  thou  art  dead.     Thou  ne'er  didst  live, 
Save  in  the  mockery  of  truth,  to  score 
The  spoils  of  false,  despotic  kings  ;  to  give 
The  tyrant's  lash  to  cringing  slave,  or  fame 
To  glory,  or  to  baser  gods  a  name  ! 


A  PARTING  SONG. 

Not  long  ago,  I  listened  to  the  song 
A  robin  trilled,  as,  from  a  covert  shade, 

Beneath  a  maple's  golden  bough,  its  strong, 

Clear  voice  broke  from  the  stillness  of  the  glade. 

To  me,  the  plaintive  notes  had  drawn  their  sweets 
From  nature's  emblems  of  the  waning  year. 

A  flush  of  glory  and  of  death  entreats 

The  heart  to  nameless  longings,  which  endear 

The  senses  to  the  mem'ry,  as  they  meet 
This  vision  of  the  summer's  parting  bloom  ; 

And  as  the  redbreast's  wondrous  song  did  greet 
My  ear,  it  seemed  a  plea  to  stay  the  doom. 

"The  past !  the  past !     Oh,  for  a  breath  of  spring  ! 

Come  back  to  me,  ye  loves  of  youth !"  it  said ; 
"Oh  !  hasten,  moments,  once  again,  and  bring, 

Bring  to  my  brooding  wings  the  loved  ones  fled." 

A  djing  pathos  blended  with  its  tone, 

As  if  it  knew  that  nevermore  again 
Could  be  reclaimed  the  happy  seasons  gone. 

Its  wild  impassioned  song  was  sung  in  vain  ! 

Its  tired  wings,  uplifted,  beat  the  air, 
As,  breasting  onward  toward  the  southern  sky, 

Noiseless  it  soared  away,  I  know  not  where, 
In  softer  climes  to  sing  its  song,  and  die. 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  SEA. 

Once,  by  the  moon-lit  sea  we  stood, 

And  watched  the  shield  of  glimmering  light 

That  fell  across  the  throbbing  flood, 
Melting  the  shadowy  folds  of  night. 


592  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Far  o'er  the  shifting,  silvery  sand 
That  every  rolling  wave  re- swept, 

We  heard  the  billows  lave  the  strand, 
In  monody  that  never  slept ; 

And  far  along  the  sheeny  deep, 
We  saw  the  fl}'ing  fleet  of  sail 

That  cleft  the  swell,  and  seemed  to  leap, 
And  scorn  the  threat  of  gathering  gale. 

And  ah  !  the  sounds  that  softly  broke 

In  ceaseless  surges  from  the  sea, 
Blent  with  a  murmuring  voice,  that  woke 

To  breathe  an  answer  back  to  me  : 

• 

For  there  beneath  the  bending  sky — 
Sweet  vision  of  a  day  that's  dead — 

One  whispered  words  that  ne'er  can  die, 
Whose  earthly  image  long  has  fled. 

Break  thou,  O  purple  waves,  for  aye, 
And  lade  the  winds,  and  kiss  the  shore, 

For  all  in  vain  I  dream,  a  day 

Shall  bring  me  back  that  voice  of  yore. 

But  yet,  along  the  strand,  alone, 
I  watch  the  never-dying  sea, 

And  hear  the  never-dying  tone 

From  lips  that  whispered  love  to  me  ! 


f&tranlra  Jft 

Miss  Gorrell,  a  daughter  of  Samuel  Armour  and  Hannah  (Bradford)  Gorrell, 
was  born  In  Salem  in  1840.  Her  years  have  been  spent  in  her  native  town  and 
in  Manchester  till  1883.  She  is  now  residing  in  Pelhain  at  the  Homestead  long 
owned  by  her  grandfather,  Eobert  Bradford. 

LOOKING  ACROSS  THE  VALE. 

Sing,  happy  birds, — ye  cannot  know 

Our  human  sense  of  heavy  loss  ! 
Bloom,  flowers  fair, — of  pain  or  woe 

No  weight  is  yours,  nor  any  cross  ! 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  sweet  voices,  still ! 

Look  upward,  blossoms,  from  the  sod ! 
Live  on,  live  on,  ye  do  fulfil 

Your  being's  law,  the  will  of  God  ! 


MIEANDA  M.  GOEEELL.  593 

Most  dear  ye  are,  ye  gladdened  so 
The  hearts  of  those,  who,  passing  o'er 

Death's  vale  of  shadows,  long  ago, 
To  mortal  sight  return  no  more. 

"Are  not  these  flowers  new  words  of  God?" 
Asked  one  of  these,  friend  of  the  poor, — 

Lifelong,  Truth's  thorny  way  he  trod, 
In  holy  cause,  strong  to  endure. 

His  life,  his  love,  still  speak  his  praise  ; 

His  words  along  the  years  shall  ring ! 
Even  now,  though  late,  for  him  men  raise 

The  graven  stone,  and  tribute  bring. 

All  powerless  now  Hate's  fiery  breath ; 

No  more  of  fruitless  toil  they  know 
Who  enter  truer  life  through  death, 

And  drink  where  healing  waters  flow 

From  springs  eternal ; — but,  O  love, 

Cannot  thy  pleading  reach  them  yet? 
Stand  they  on  heights  so  far  above 

Earth,  that  thy  sorrow  they  forget? 

We  still,  with  tongues  that  falter,  read 
First-lesson  pages,  stained  with  tears  ; 

The  hands  we  lift,  in  childhood's  need 
Of  guidance,  tremble  with  our  fears. 

So  backward  we,  and  slow  to  learn, 

So  often  wander  far  astray, 
In  wistful  searching  and  return 

Spending  so  much  of  precious  day ; 

While  they,  our  dear  ones,  nevermore 

Lose  time  or  strength  in  effort  vain, 
But  wiser  grow  in  heavenly  lore, 

And  unto  higher  life  attain  ; 

Ah,  surely,  we  can  ne'er  o'ertake 

Them,  in  the  far-off,  unseen  land  ! 
And  if  they  turn  not,  for  love's  sake, 

Unto  its  border,  where  we  stand 

At  last,  bewildered,  weary,  sad, — 

If  they  come  not,  with  word  and  tone 
And  welcome,  as  of  old-time,  glad, 

How  shall  we  find  again,  our  own? 


594  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS. 

I  stood  upon  a  wreck-strewn  shore, 
Watching  the  pulse  of  ocean  beat, 

Until  a  white-capped  wavelet  bore 
A  bit  of  drift-wood  to  my  feet. 

Then,  from  the  depths,  there  came  to  me 
A  voice  I  knew, — "What  art  thou,  soul, 

Afloat  upon  a  troubled  sea, 

Borne  onward  as  its  waters  roll  ? 

Behold  thyself,  thyself,  in  this 

Fragment,  so  worthless,  useless,  all ! 

What  wonder,  if,  to  some  abyss 
Of  darkness,  thou  at  last  shalt  fall? 

Of  dust,  one  atom  in  the  air, 

The  tiniest  shell  in  yon  sea-cave, — 

These  with  the  universe  compare, — 
Dreaming  of  life  beyond  the  grave  ! 

Think  of  unbounded  fields  of  space  ; 

Of  stars,  as  countless  as  the  sand ; 
Each  held  in  its  appointed  place 

By  the  Creator's  tireless  hand  ! 

Yea,  God,  the  Infinite,  o'er  all 

Ruleth,  the  King  of  worlds  untold  ; 

But,  'What  is  man  ?'     O  soul,  recall 
And  ponder  well  the  question  old  ! 

Look  thou  abroad,  among  thy  kind  : 
See  how  death  and  destruction  wait ; 

What  chains  of  limitation  bind 
Men  down  in  lowness  of  estate  ! 

Believest  thou,  of  God,  that  he 
Will  hear,  or  heed,  a  mortal's  ciy? 

Then,  why  doth  poor  humanitj* 
Under  a  cross  of  anguish  lie  ?" 

Lost  was  the  voice,  in  murmers  low 
Of  evening  wind,  o'er  wreck  and  tide  ; 

"I  know,  I  know,  and  do  not  know — 
O  where  art  thou,  my  God?"  I  cried. 

"Giver  of  life,  dost  thou  not  care 
For  earth-born  children,  in  their  woe? 


MIEANDA  M.  GOBEELL.  595 

Wilt  thou  abandon  to  despair, 

The  least,  most  helpless,  here  below? 

• 
Nay,  let  me  keep  my  faith  in  thee, 

Through  all  of  ill  that  ma}-  betide  ! 
Faith  in  thy  love,  this,  grant  to  me, 
Whatever  else  may  be  denied  !" 

An  answer  came  ;  when  all  the  wild 
And  dreary  scene,  night  curtained  o'er ; 

One  after  one,  above  me,  smiled 
The  glad  stars,  friendly  as  of  yore  ! 

From  the  eternal  realm  of  calms 

The}*  looked,  and  said,  "'Neath  great  and  small 
Are  yet  the  Everlasting  Arms, 

From  which  not  one,  not  one,  may  fall ! 

X 

The  laws  so  dimly  understood 

By  thee,  O  thou  of  little  faith, 
Are  those  of  wisdom,  justice,  good, 

And  unto  life,  they  lead,  not  death  ! 

Thy  God  is  there,  thy  God  is  here, 

Where'er  on  him  his  creatures  call ; 
Listen  no  longer  unto  fear, 

Trust  Him,  who  is  the  Life  of  all !" 

Assured,  and  comforted,  and  stilled, 

I,  then,  with  clearer  vision,  saw, 
That,  all  its  purposes  fulfilled, 

Perfection  is  the  end  of  law, 

Upon  the  first,  large-lettered  scroll 

Of  nature  glows  the  word,  "Design," 
And,  surely,  as  the  ages  roll, 

Unfoldeth  still,  the  plan  divine  ! 

Slowly, — as  light  grows,  hour  by  hour, — 

Even  through  suffering  mad.e  strong, 
The  human  race  shall  gather  power 

To  break  its  chains  of  sin  and  wrong ! 

Take  courage,  wearj*,  aching  heart, 

Faint  not  beneath  thy  load  of  care  ! 
They  who  in  battle  have  a  part 

Will  in  the  joy  of  victory  share  ! 


596  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

ffielen  &.  Jf.  OTddjrane. 

Mrs.  Cochrane  is  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  Daniel  French  and 
Sarah  Wingate  Magg,  of  Chester,  and  a  half-sister  of  the  late  B.  B.  French.  She  has 
been  a  contributor  to  various  publications— chiefly  of  stories,  short  .and  serial;  but 
has  occasionally  furnished  poems  and  miscellaneous  articles,  and  at  one  time  wrote 
letters  from  Washington,  D.  C.,  while  temporarily  sojourning  there.  In  187<>  she 
was  married  to  Hon.  G.  W.  Cochrane,  of  Boston,  Mass. 


OH  STAY. 

How  lovely  fair  my  roses  bloomed 

On  that  bright  morn  in  May  ; — 
"And  must  }-e  fade?"  I  sadly  cried, 

"Oh  stay,  sweet  roses,  stay  !" 
E'en  then  a  passing  zeph}T  swept 

My  beauteous  flowers  away, 
And,  withering,  dying,  on  the  sod 

Each  crimson  petal  lay. 

A  storm  came  o'er  the  setting  sun, 

But  lo  !  as  it  passed  by, 
Jehovah's  promise  written  there 

Upon  the  cloudy  sky  ! 
With  hands  upraised  I  quick!}'  cried, 

"Oh,  lovely  rainbow,  stay!" 
E'en  while  I  spake,  those  glorious  hues 

Were  fading  fast  away. 

Sweet  summer,  with  her  golden  hair, 

Walked  through  the  joyous  earth, 
And  wood,  and  vale,  and  water- fall, 

Seemed  jubilant  with  mirth. 
But  scarce  I  caught  the  glowing  smile 

That  wreathed  her  rosy  mouth, 
When  autumn  frowned,  and  she,  poor  maid, 

Went  weeping  toward  the  south. 

And  lo,  a  change  !  a  crimson  flame 

Glowed  bright  from  bower  and  tree  ; 
Methought  each  shrub  a  "burning  bush" 

Where  angels  called  to  me. 
In  triumph  I  rejoicing  cried, 

"Oh,  glorious  vision,  sta}' !" 
Alas  !  for  nature  only  wore 

The  splendors  of  decay  ! 

I  saw  a  maiden,  sweet  and  fair, 

With  pure  seraphic  brow, — 
Well  might  it  be, — alas  the  day  ! 


HELEN  A.  F.  COCHRANE.  597 

For  she's  a  seraph  now  : 
I  fondl}"  thought  to  walk  with  her 

Along  life's  darkening  way, 
But  she  was  of  earth's  beautiful, 

And  so  she  could  not  stay. 

Oh  autumn  leaves,  that  glow  in  death, 

Ye  roses  fair  of  Maj-, 
Say,  if  in  all  this  weary  world 

There's  nothing  that  will  stay? 
Bright  summer  hours  and  rainbow  hues, 

Too  soon  they  pass  away, 
But  human  life,  and  human  love, 

Are  frailer  things  than  they. 


PARTED. 

M}7  sister,  in  some  musing  hour, 
When  o'er  thy  soul  the  past  hath  power, 
When  in  th}r  dreams  thou  livest  o'er 
The  clays  that  will  return  no  more, — 
Say,  does  no  yearning  thought  e'er  come 
To  this,  thy  childhood's  earliest  home? 

Thy  home,  though  years  and  3*ears  have  passed 
Since  thou,  dear  one,  wert  with  with  us  last ; 
And  oft  we've  wished,  though  still  in  vain, 
That  thou  wert  with  us  once  again. 
Say,  will  thy  foot  cross  nevermore 
The  threshold  of  thy  father's  door  ? 

Thy  father !  thou  wouldst  miss  his  face, 

His  kindty  smile  and  dear  embrace ; 

For  oh,  he  left  us  long  ago, 

Left  sickness,  care,  and  grief  below; 

And  so  we  laid  his  weary  head 

To  rest,  among  the  quiet  dead. 

Ah  me,  the  gloom  that  o'er  us  fell, 
None  but  the  fatherless  can  tell ! 
Then  our  fair  sisters  left  us,  too, 
As  if  too  dark  life's  pathway  grew, 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  above, 
What  earth  held  not,  a  father's  love. 

Sweet  flowers  above  their  graves  we  set — 

The  myrtle,  rose,  and  violet ; 

Sweet  flowers  that  tell  how  brightly  they 


598  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Are  blooming  in  eternal  day  ; 

Frail  flowers  that  tell  us,  with  a  sigh, 

How  in  the  dust  they  mouldering  lie. 

And  home  would  seem  so  sad  and  strange, 

For  thou  wouldst  mark  each  dreary  change  ;- 

But  holy  memories  linger  here 

To  call  thee  back,  my  sister  dear ; 

Old  memories  that  thy  soul  would  thrill, 

And  there  are  hearts  that  love  thee,  still. 

Thy  mother,  where  the  shadows  lie 
That  tell  life's  setting  hour  is  nigh, 
Still  walketh  on  with  cheerful  feet ; 
How  would  she  joy  thy  form  to  greet — 
To  greet  ere  she  shall  tread  that  shore 
From  which  no  foot  returneth  moiv. 

And  I — companionless  I  stand, 

The  last  of  all  our  household  band  ; 

The  last,  to  linger  here  alone, 

When  all  the  old  home  light  hath  flown. 

And  I  have  marked  the  changing  years 

With  weary  heart  and  falling  tears. 

They  say  that  time  hath  touched  thy  brow, 
I  scarce  would  know  my  sister  now ; — 
And  should  fate's  darkly  rushing  tide 
For  aye  our  earthly  paths  divide, 
In  that  sweet  land  where  comes  no  care, 
Where  all  is  lovely,  pure  and  fair, 
Shall  we  not  know  each  other  there  ? 


ACROSS  THE  SEA. 

Thou  hast  left  thy  home  my  brother, 

Left  the  friends  who  love  thee  best ; 
But  sweet  memories,  and  hallowed, 

Come  to  soothe  each  saddened  breast ; 
And  the  prayer  goes  up  at  even, 

For  our  wanderer  o'er  the  sea, 
"O,  our  Father,  gently  lead  him, 

Bring  him  safely  back  to  me." 

At  her  window  sits  thy  mother, 

Musing  in  the  twilight  grey, 
And  I  know  that  she  is  thinking 

Of  her  dear  one  far  away. 


HELEN  A.  F.  COCHEANE.  599 

And  I  know  that  thus  she  prayeth, 

While  her  heart  goes  o'er  the  sea, 
"O,  our  Father,  gently  lead  him, 

Bring  him  safely  back  to  me." 

Often  dreams  thy  fair  young  daughter 

Of  a  far  off,  foreign  land, 
While  beneath  the  trees  she  stra}reth 

Planted  by  thine  own  dear  hand ; 
Vines  and  trees  and  roses  whispering 

Tender,  holy  thoughts  of  thee — 
Then  she  meekly  prays,  "God  bless  him, 

Bring  him  safely  back  to  me." 

In  the  wood,  and  by  the  river, 

Sports  thy  gay,  brave-hearted  boy, 
And  thy  little  ones  are  singing 

All  day  long  in  childish  joy  ; 
But  when  comes  the  silent  evening, 

Hushed  is  all  their  childish  glee  ; — 
Then  they  pray,  "God  bless  my  father, 

Bring  him  safely  back  to  me." 

She,  the  tender  and  true-hearted, 

Given  erst  thy  home  to  share, 
From  thy  fire-side  passed  serenel}* — 

Passed,  and  left  a  shadow  there. 
But  though  in  her  earthly  dwelling 

We  no  more  her  form  shall  see, 
Well  we  know,  mid  heaven's  brightness, 

That  she  still  remembers  thee. 

All  last  night  among  the  branches-, 

Mourned  the  plaintive  whippoorwill, 
And  I  questioned  of  my  spirit 

If  his  song  foreboded  ill. 
Then  the  song  grew  louder,  sweeter, 

Surely  thus  he  said  to  me — 
"God,  who  loves  each  little  creature, 

He  will  bring  him  back  to  thee." 

Glorious  broke  the  summer  morning, 

When  I  oped  my  window  wide, 
And  the  dear,  delicious  sunshine 

Bathed  me  in  its  golden  tide. 
Gemmed  with  dew-drops  hung  the  blossoms 

Of  the  old  horse-chestnut  tree, 
While,  to  sip  their  honeyed  sweetness, 

Flitted  humming-bird  and  bee. 


GOO  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 


So  the  world  looked  up,  rejoicing, 

Heaven  looked  down  to  earth  and  smiled, 
And  of  all  its  dim  foreboding, 

Nature's  voice  my  heart  beguiled. 
So  I  said  farewell  to  sorrow  ; 

He  who  loveth  bird  and  bee, 
He  who  giveth  flowers  and  sunshine — 

God  is  ever  watching  thee. 


13. 

Mrs.  Holbrook,  wife  of  Rev.  C.  F.  Holbrook,  of  ^Newport,  is  a  native  of  Maine. 
She  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Benjamin  B.  Bradbury,  of  Bangor.  At  the  early  age 
of  fifteen  years  she  completed  the  course  of  study  in  the  Bangor  High  School,  after 
which  she  was  a  pupil  in  Mt.  Holyoke  and  Charlestown  Female  Seminaries,  and 
was  graduated  from  the  latter.  As  a  pupil  Mrs.  Holbrook  was  diligent  and  bril 
liant,  and  as  a  teacher  of  young  ladies  she  was  efficient  and  accomplished,  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  Holbrook  in  1863,  and  since  that  event  has  shown  such  devotion 
to  parish  work  and  to  family  duties  as  to  leave  her  little  time  for  literary  labor. 


"IT  IS  BEAUTIFUL  THERE." 

The  gates  were  unclosing,  and  glories  elysian 

With  strange  lustre  shone  through  earth's  shadowy  night ; 

A  fair  maiden  gazed  on  the  pure,  heavenly  vision 
'Till  her  pillow  of  stone  bore  a  Bethel  of  light. 

The  faces,  lost  faces,  all  radiant  with  glory, 

Like  stars  that  the  darkness  of  night  but  reveals, 

One  moment  shone  downward,  to  tell  the  sweet  story 
Of  satisfied  hope  our  earth  mist  conceals  ! 

O  thin,  love-pierced  veil !  How  quick  the  transition 
Through  clear,  shining  waves  of  light,  buoyant  air, 

By  a  swift  angel  borne,  whose  merciful  mission 
His  pale  brow  surrounds  with  an  aureole  fair ! 

The  lily  white  bell  of  the  sweet  asphodel 
He  bears  like  a  signet  of  love  on  his  breast, 

And  smiles,  as  smiles  only  the  fair  Israfrl 
Who  brings  the  evangel  of  peace  and  of  rest. 

The  maiden  looked  upward,  and  saw  him  draw  near, — 

The  lily  bells  paled  in  his  still,  icy  breath  ; 
He  wooed  her  with  smiles,  and  with  never  a  fear 

She  plighted  her  troth  to  the  bridegroom,  Death. 

"I  think  I  will  go  ;  it  is  beautiful  there," — 

And  a  smile  of  strange  beauty  transfigured  her  face  ; 

We  called  her  by  name,  but  the  maiden  so  fair, 
In  death's  snow}*  bridal,  with  still,  silent  grace 


ANNIE  B.  HOLBEOOK.  601 

Gave  back  no  response  ;  and  the  vision  so  brief 
Had  faded  from  out  the  dark,  vacant  room  ! 

The  maiden  too  vanished  ;  and  grief,  sable  grief, 

With  footsteps  all  noiseless,  approached  in  the  gloom. — 

Be  still,  throbbing  heart,  and  cease  thy  repining ! 

Breathe  out  thy  vain  sighs  in  a  child's  trustful  praj'er, 
Beyond  the  thin  veil  God's  love  still  divining, 

And  know,  surely  know,  "it  is  beautiful  there." 


HYMN, 

"Written  for  a  church  dedication. 

Though  heaven  itself  cannot  contain 

Thy  presence,  Lord  of  Grace, 
Yet  in  the  humble,  contrite  soul 

Thou  hast  a  dwelling  place  : 
So  we,  with  grateful  heart,  would  dare 

To  offer  for  thy  shrine 
Our  work  of  love,  this  house  of  pra}'er ; 

O,  consecrate  it  thine. 

Our  work  of  love,  with  pure  desire 

Inwrought  through  every  part, 
Behold,  from  corner-stone  to  spire, 

An  offering  of  the  heart ! 
Here  let  the  swiftly  coming  years 

Attest  redeeming  grace, 
And  penitents,  through  falling  tears, 

Behold  a  Saviour's  face. 

Here  j'ield  thy  balm,  once  smitten  Rock ; 

Bloom  fresh  again,  sweet  Rod  ; 
As  cloud  and  pillar  led  the  ark, 

So  let  thy  light,  O  God, 
Forever  shining  in  this  place, 

Our  Leader's  love  reveal ; 
And  daily  miracles  of  grace 

His  benediction  seal. 


POEM, 

Written  for  the  90th  birth-day  of  Rev.  Ira  Pearson,  of  Newport. 

These  ninety  years  !     What  magic  pen 

Their  history  can  trace, 
Bring  back  their  vanished  youth  again, 

Give  each  its  wonted  place  ! 


602  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Within  that  deep,  unfathomed  sea 

That  buries  all  the  past, 
Like  snow-flakes  falling  silently, 

Their  full,  rich  life  is  cast. 

Far,  far  beneath  the  tidal  wave, 

Beneath  the  passing  storm, 
Lie  dreams  of  youth,  the  bright,  the  brave, 

And  hopes  that  gave  them  form. 

In  that  still  depth  no  current  moves, 
*  The  billows  lie  asleep, 
And  early  griefs  and  buried  loves 
A  sacred  silence  keep. 

Like  precious  betftls,  from  shining  braid 

Or  broken  rosary, 
With  mocking  glitter  they  evade 

The  grasp  of  memory. 

But  in  the  old  man's  heart,  a  power 

Above  decay  or  blight, 
Pure  trust  in  God,  a  precious  dower, 

Still  glows  with  quenchless  light. 

There  stainless  honor  dwells  with  love, 
And  truth,  a  constant  guest, 

While  peace,  o'erbrooding  like  a  dove, 
Builds  safe  her  sheltered  nest. 

Hope  anchors  there  within  the  vail, 

And  faith  in  things  unseen 
Unfurls  her  eager,  winged  sail, 

And  skims  the  gulf  between. 

As  pearls  are  crystallized  from  pain, 

So  silent,  humble  tears, 
The  dews  of  gratitude,  remain 

Enshrined  within  these  years. 

Thanksgivings  of  the  humble  poor, 
Heart  offerings  of  the  blest, 

Upon  his  head,  now  silvered  o'er, 
In  benediction  rest. 

His  tender  ministry  of  grace 
Flows  on,  unchecked  by  time  ; 

In  many  a  loving  heart,  we  trace 
Its  silent  force  sublime. 


HELEN  MAR  BEAN.  G03 

In  Indian-summer's  waiting  calm, 

He  reaps  the  aftermath 
Of  all  the  past ;  its  treasured  balm 

Sheds  fragrance  o'er  his  path. 

Long  past  the  fervid  heat  of  noon, 

With  mellow  fruitage  rife, 
He  welcomes  heaven's  sweet,  restful  boon, 

The  evening-time  of  life. 

As  slow  the  weary  sun  goes  down, 

The  stars  of  heaven  appear, 
The  cross  recedes,  the  jewelled  crown 

Of  glory  draweth  near. 


Jftar  i3ean. 


Mrs.  Bean  is  a  native  of  Hopkinton.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  William  H. 
Smart,  M.  D.,  for  many  years  a  practising  physician  of  Concord.  She  lived  in 
Concord  until  her  marriage,  since  which  time  her  home  has  been  in  Boston.  Her 
summers  have  been  for  many  years  spent  in  Swampscott,  Mass. 


WAITING. 

While  waiting  for  thee  near  the  tall  elm-tree, 
The  song  of  a  bird  came  floating  to  me. 
Enraptured  I  sat,  and  I  listened  long, 
As  she  poured  forth  her  soul  in  a  wondrous  song, 
And  then,  like  a  flash  from  the  throat  of  the  bird, 
A  quick,  eager  call  to  her  mate  I  heard. 

Caressingly  soft, 

She  repeated  it  oft, 

"Sweet,  sweet, 

Come  to  me,  sweet." 

A  moment  she  listened,  then  called  again, 
Then  she  sang  as  before — a  soul-stirring  strain, 
With  never  a  doubt  and  never  a  fear, 
There  was  faith  in  her  voice  so  thrilling  and  clear ; 
Not  long  does  she  wait,  for  lo  !  while  she  sings, 
Comes  an  answering  note  and  a  flash  of  wings, — 

An  answering  note 

From  a  tree  far  remote 

"Sweet,  sweet; 

I'm  coming,  sweet." 


604  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


When  he  flew  to  the  tree  and  found  her  there, 
Such  a  burst  of  melody  filled  the  air ; 
Such  happiness  gushed  from  their  tuneful  throats  ; 
Such  ripples  of  laughter,  such  gay,  merry  notes ! 
In  their  sweet  bird  language  I  beard  them  say, 
"We're  the  happiest  birds  in  the  world  to-day." 

Again  and  again 

Came  the  tender  refrain, 

"Sweet,  sweet, 

To  love  is  sweet." 

I  sang  with  the  birds  in  the  morning  clear 

The  song  that  my  darling  loved  best  to  hear ; 

With  never  a  doubt  and  never  a  care, 

My  heart  was  as  light  as  the  fresh  morning  air ; 

I  called  like  the  bird  in  the  tall  elm-tree, 

"I  am  waiting,  my  dearest,  waiting  for  thee." 

Caressingly  soft, 

I  repeated  it  oft— 

"Sweet,  sweet, 

Come  to  me,  sweet." 

But  my  heart  grows  faint  as  the  da}*  wears  on, 
The  gladsome  light  of  the  morning  is  gone, 
And  a  mist  creeps  up  from  the  cold  gray  sea, 
In  its  chilling  embrace  it  is  folding  me  ; 
I  call  and  I  listen  and  wait  in  vain, 
With  a  burning  thirst  and  a  hungry  pain  ; 

And  my  eager  tone 

Has  changed  to  a  moan, 

"Sweet,  sweet, 

Where  art  thou,  sweet?" 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAY. 

YESTERDAY. 

A  cloud  rose  up  in  the  far-off  west, 
And  with  thick  folds  covered  the  sun  ; 

With  sombre  garments  the  earth  was  dressed, 
And  the  heavens  were  gloomy  and  dun. 

A  mist  came  up  o'er  the  dull  gra}-  sea 
And  covered  the  earth  like  a  shroud ; 


HELEN  MAE  BEAN.  605 

Compassionate  nature  sorrowed  with  me, 
For  my  heart  with  anguish  was  bowed. 

She  veiled  the  gladsome  blue  of  the  skies 

And  put  on  a  garment  of  serge  ; 
The  tears  fell  fast  from  her  pitying  eyes, 

And  the  sea  sang  a  mournful  dirge. 

The  gay  birds  hushed  their  songs  in  the  trees, 
And  the  heads  of  the  flowers  drooped  low, 

With  infinite  pity  sighed  the  breeze, 
And  the  hours  dragged  heavy  and  slow. 

"My  life  is  dreary  and  full  of  pain," 

In  my  despairing  grief,  I  said, 
'  'No  whisper  of  love  will  come  again  ; 

He  is  false — or — he  must  be — dead." 

TO-DAT. 

"Shake  out,  O  sea,  your  skirts  of  light, 

With  shimmer  of  silver  and  flash  of  gold ; 
And  deck  your  bosom  with  jewels  bright, 
And  all  your  wonderful  beauties  unfold  !" 
And  the  bright  waves  danced 

With  the  maddest  glee, 
As  the  sunlight  glanced 
O'er  the  jewelled  sea. 

"And  sing,  O  birds,  with  tuneful  throats, 

A  song  of  joy  and  thanksgiving  with  me  ; 
Pour  forth  3rour  gladdest,  merriest  notes, 
And  fill  all  the  air  with  sweet  harmony  !" 
And  the  gay  birds  sang 

From  the  topmost  tree, 
Till  the  whole  earth  rang 
With  their  melody. 

"Rejoice,  0  day  god,  from  on  high, 

And  cover  all  nature  with  glory  new ; 
Let  the  fair  glad  earth  and  sea  and  sky 
Rejoice  with  me,  for  my  darling  is  true  !" 
And  the  bright  sun  beamed 

From  the  heaven's  clear  blue, 
Till  the  whole  world  seemed 
Created  anew. 


GOG  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

iflarg  &.  $.  »atri). 

Mrs.  Hatch,  whose  name  previous  to  marriage  was  I'latt,  is  a  native  of  Northumber 
land,  her  present  residence.  She  was  educated  at  Lancaster  Academy,  and  at  her 
home,  reciting  her  French,  rhetoric,  and  astronomy  lessons  to  her  mother,  and  her 
lessons,  in  Latin,  to  a  learned  but  improvident  hired  man  of  her  father.  At  the  ago  of 
nineteen  she  began  to  write  for  the  press.  Her  writings  are  mostly  in  prose.  In  1871 
she  was  married,  and  migrated  from  one  farm-house  to  another.  The  poems  of 
Mrs.  Hatch  have  been  published  mostly  in  the  Portland  Transcript,  and  much  cop 
ied  by  other  papers.  Her  Temperance  Pieces,  which  are  two  poems  of  considerable 
length,  were  copied,  says  an  editor,  into  more  than  twenty  of  his  exchanges. 

ONE  BY  ONE. 

One  by  one  the  da}-s  go  by,       One  by  one  are  battles  fought, 
One  by  one  our  darlings  die  ;     One  by  one  are  great  deeds 
Budding  hopes  and  waning  day,  wrought ; 

One  by  one  they  fade  away.       Kingdoms,  heroes,  deeds  and  all, 

One  by  one  they  rise  and  fall. 
One  by  one  the  seasons  pass, 

Frost  and  snow,  and  flower  and  One  by  one  come  smiles  and  tears, 
grass  ;  Hopes  and  sorrows,  joys  and 

Twig  by  twig  the  birdlings  build,  fears  ; 

Drop  by  drop  the  brooks  are '  Year  by  year  our  lives  are  told, 
filled.  Step  by  step  we  near  the  fold. 


THE  WEARY  SOWER. 

"My  seed  fell  always  on  the  ston}-  ground," 

She  sadly  said, 

Then  bowed  her  weary  head  ; 
"I  cannot  ask  my  Father  for  a  crown, 
When  I  go  hence,  nor  hear  the  words  'well  done, 
Come  unto  me  and  rest  from  toil,  dear  one.' 

"At  early  dawn,  I  went  forth  with  the  rest, 

To  do  my  task ; 

I  never  paused  to  ask 
If  it  were  light  or  hard,  but  did  my  best  ; 
Now  night  has  come,  and  I  have  sadly  found 
My  seed  fell  always  on  the  stony  ground. 

'  'The  happy,  careless  toilers  by  my  side, 

With  heedless  hand, 

Cast  o'er  the  waiting  land 
Their  sprouting,  vernal  seedlings  far  and  wide  ; 
Back  came  to  them  rich  blossoms  fair  and  bright, 
While  mine,  fallen  amid  stones,  had  suffered  blight. 

'  'It  is  so  hard  to  die  and  be  forgot ; 
But  harder  yet 
To  know  that  they  forget, 


MAET  B.  P.  HATCH.  607 

Because  no  noble  deed  I  ever  wrought ; 

I  tried,  but  all  too  soon  the  night  came  round 

And  found  my  seed  sown  on  the  stony  ground." 

A  gentle  spirit  hovering  in  the  air, 

Hearing,  drew  near, 

And  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"Dear  heart,  the  Lord  would  not  have  thee  despair, 
He  knows  thy  toil,  thy  sorrow,  and  thy  love  ; 
The  seed  thou'st  sown  hath  blossomed  up  above." 


COUNT  YOUR  MERCIES. 

"When  the  clouds  of  heaven  lower, 

And  the  rain  is  falling  fast, 
O  remember  in  this  hour 

That  the  storm  won't  always  last ; 
Just  sit  down  and  count  the  mercies 

That  have  blessed  you  da}'  by  da}' ; 
Think  that  sunlight  can't  be  falling 

All  the  time  across  your  way. 

If  you're  poor  you've  surely  some  one 

That  is  daily  loving  you  ; 
If  no  children,  if  no  parent, 

Then  a  friend  who's  kind  and  true. 
Poor,  when  you  have  earth's  best  treasures, 

Love  and  friendship  ?  Can  you  care 
For  the  fleeting  jo}Ts  of  riches  ? 

Count  your  mercies  ;  you've  your  share. 

If  you're  friendless,  just  consider 

You've  a  mighty  Friend  to  love  ; 
If  you're  poor,  you  can  have  treasures, 

Rich  and  rare,  laid  up  above  ; 
If  your  nearest  and  your  dearest 

Has  gone  out  beyond  your  sight, 
Think  he'll  be  the  first  to  greet  you 

In  that  land  which  hath  no  night. 

Rain  must  fall  in  every  measure, 

Every  heart  must  have  its  grief; 
Storms  are  rising,  hopes  are  shipwrecked, 

"Waves  dash  high  on  every  reef. 
Though  the  blinding  tears  are  falling. 

Count  your  mercies,  count  them  true  ; 
Ah  !  dear  heart,  you'll  find  bright  jewels 

Have  been  meted  -out  to  you. 


608  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

PATRICK'S  LETTER. 

I've  a  mother  in  ould  Ireland, 

Though  I  fear  me  she  is  dead ; 
For  the  dreadful  tale  of  famine 

Makes  my  heart  sink  down  like  lead. 
They  tell  me  Ireland's  starving, 

That  the  crops  have  failed  to  pay, 
And  but  few  have  any  praties — 

Let  alone  the  mate  and  tay. 

It's  a  3-ear  now  since  I  left  her 

For  to  cross  the  stormy  say ; 
And  she  blissed  her  boy  at  parting, 

Saying  "don't  forgit  to  pray  !" 
So  I've  prayed  to  Virgin  Mary 

And  to  many  a  blissid  saint 
For  luck  to  come  to  Ireland  ; 

But  now  my  heart  is  faint. 

O,  I  see  my  poor  ould  mother 

As  she^  looked  upon  that  day 
With  her  dim  old  eyes  a-weeping, 

And  her  face  so  worn  and  grey. 
"Shure  we'll  live  like  quanes  and  princes," 

Said  she,  when  my  grief  she  see  ; 
"And  I'll  sell  the  pig  and  shanty 

When  j'ou  send  the  word  for  me." 

I'd  niver  left  my  mother 

But  I  heard  such  fine  big  pay 
Might  be  had  for  jist  the  asking, 

In  the  land  beyond  the  say. 
I've  sint  my  earnings  to  her, 

But  I've  niver  heard  a  word  ; 
And  I'm  feared  she  riot's  a-living 

Since  the  dreadful  news  I've  heard. 

Please  write  to  Ireland,  mister, 

Jist  a  little,  little  bit, 
And  ask  if  Mis'  Maloney 

Is  alive,  and  if  she's  writ. 
Say,  since  the  dreadful  famine 

That  my  heart  has  been  like  lead, 
Say  "write  to  your  son  Patrick, 

If  its  thrue  that  you  are  dead." 


AH  VILLA  ALMIEA  WOODWARD.  609 

aimtra 

Miss  Woorlward  was  born  in  Swanzey,  April  4, 1840.  She  was  educated  at  New 
Ipswich  Academy,  and  at  Newbury,  (Vt.)  Female  Collegiate  Institute,  graduating 
in  1861.  She  became  a  school  teacher,  teaching  in  Marlborough,  and  in  Upton, 
Boylston  and  Worcester,  Mass.  She  died  in  Worcester,  Nov.  25, 1865.  A  volume  of 
her  poems  was  printed  in  Keene  after  her  death. 


THINKING. 

Through  the  leaves  of  gold  and  purple 

Slow  the  sun  is  sinking ; 
Fetlock  deep  within  the  river, 

Stand  the  cattle  drinking  ; 
On  the  bridge  above  the  mill-stream, 

Rests-the  maiden — thinking. 

Nut-brown  hair  that  mocks  the  sunset 

With  the  golden  gleaming, 
Hands  above  the  picture  folded, 

With  the  graceful  seeming 
Of  an  antique,  sculptured  Nereid 

By  a  fountain  dreaming. 

As  a  tender  thought  had  swayed, 

O'er  the  stream  she's  leaning  ; 
While  her  red  lips  curve  and  quiver 

With  a  sudden  meaning, 
And  a  quick  nod  shakes  her  ringlets, 

All  her  features  screening. 

For  there  comes  a  sound  of  laughter, 

And  a  merry  cheering  ; 
And  the  cattle  turn  their  faces 

To  a  step  that's  nearing — 
And  she  waits  for  words  low  spoken 

In  a  tone  endearing. 

Now  behind  the  western  tree-tops 

Low  the  sun  is  sinking  ; 
Toward  the  bridge  the  weary  cattle 

Turn  themselves  from  drinking — 
Ah  !  the}*  never  guessed,  as  I  did, 

What  the  maid  was  thinking. 

George  Bancroft  <£riflitf). 

Geo.  B.  Griffith  was  born  February  28,  1841,  in  Newburyport,  Mass.  He  was  ed 
ucated  at  Dummer  Academy,  Byfleld,  Mass.  At  the  age  of  eighteen,  at  his  own 
option,  he  entered  a  store  in  his  native  city  as  a  clerk.  Two  years  afterwards  he 
went  to  Haverhill,  Mass.,  and  was  married  to  a  New  Hampshire  lady,  Miss  Anna 


610  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


8.  Howe  of  Bradford.  Shortly  after  the  breaking  out  of  the  Rebellion,  Mr.  Grif- 
flth  enlisted  and  was  stationed,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  months  of  service  in 
the  defence  of  Washington,  at  Fort  Constitution  near  Portsmouth.  Here  he  be 
gan  to  write  for  Boston  and  New  York  publications,  and  several  of  his  poems  ap 
peared  in  the  Portsmouth  Journal.  After  being  mustered  from  the  U.  8.  service 
he  removed  in  1871,  to  Newport,  and  soon  engaged  in  the  lumber  business  in  an 
adjoining  town.  At  a  later  date  he  removed  to  East  Lempster,  whore  lu-  pim-haM-d 
a  tine  residence  for  a  permanent  home.  Mr.  Griffith  is  gaining  much  pecuniary 
reward  for  his  literary  labors.  He  is  now  engaged  as  a  contributor,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  to  many  of  the  leading  periodicals  of  the  day.  A  volume  of  his  pot-ins 
is  soon  to  be  published. 


THE  WEBSTER  HOMESTEAD. 

Embowered  amid  the  charms  of  May 
I  saw  his  boyhood's  home  one  day, — 

That  cottage  brown ; 
The  granite  mount  that  bears  his  name, 
An  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

Looked  calmly  down. 

The  chain  of  hills  was  shining  clear, 
Those  lofty  peaks  to  Webster  dear 

In  other  years ; 

Above  me  arched  the  same  blue  skies 
On  which  he  gazed  with  partial  63'es, 

Suffused  with  tears. 

Sweet  clover  rippled  in  the  breeze, 
The  sun  hung  o'er  the  apple-trees 

A  shield  of  gold  ; 

The  meadow  brook  in  silence  flowed,  ' 
And  white  flocks  fed  beside  the  road, 

Far  from  the  fold. 

A  single  cloud  hung  low  remote, 
Like  fleecy  veil  did  slowly  float 

O'er  blooming  dell. 
But  fairer  far  than  all  to  me 
The  stately,  fragrant  old  elm- tree 

And  mossy  well ! 

By  honored  sire,  with  greatest  care, 
That  spreading  tree  was  planted  there 

Long  years  ago ; 

His  hand  set  up  the  ancient  sweep 
(Long  ma}-  its  ashen  fibres  keep  !) 

And  curb  below. 

How  oft  beneath  its  cooling  shade, 
In  pure  delight,  has  Webster  laid 
And  watched  the  sky  ; 


GEORGE  BANCR OFT  GRIFFITH.  6 1 1 

How  oft  by  that  fern-bordered  brink 
The  might}'  statesman  stopped  to  drink, 
In  years  gone  by  ! 

Once,  when  his  fleeting  days  were  few, 
He  for  a  friend  that  bucket  drew, 

And  said  to  him, 

"Sweeter  than  Hybla's  honey  this  !" 
Then  quaffed  a  cup  and  left  a  kiss 

Upon  its  rim  ! 

We  bless  his  kind  sire's  memory ! 
Long  may  the  roots  of  that  green  tree 

Be  fast  and  sure  ! 

Long  may  that  well-curb  stand  above  ; 
New  Hampshire's  sons  its  waters  love, 

And  keep  them  pure  ! 


THE  STORM  AT  FORT  POINT. 

January  4th,  1868. 

As  did  the  plumes  of  Erin's  giant  race, 

Now  toss  the  scented  pines  of  ancient  Rye ! 

By  roused  Boreas  shook  like  lightest  fleece  ; 
And,  as  a  pall,  gloom  darkens  all  the  sky. 

Maine's  seaward  trend,  a  vast,  sharp-pointed  ledge, 
Like  a  Leviathan  with  teeth  all  bare, 

Dripping  the  foam  of  his  stupendous  rage, 
Dares  the  Storm  Spirit  of  the  sea  and  air ! 

Lashing  the  bosom  of  the  maddened  Ocean, 

The  wind  sweeps  inland  with  a  deafning  roar — 

Lo  !  with  terribly  sublime  commotion 

The  mighty  billows  thunder  on  the  shore  ! 

Dense  vapor  has  engulphed  the  Isles  of  Shoals  ; 

But  dimly  Whale's-Back  light-house  can  I  see, 
Which  Ocean  as  a  little  toy  enfolds, 

And  fain  would  egg- like  crush  its  masomy  ! 

One  craft  belated,  at  the  river's  mouth, 

Drifts  swift!}-  leeward  with  its  anchors  down  ; 

God  save  it  from  the  tempest's  awful  wrath, 
For  powerless  looks  on  the  anxious  town  ! 

Awe-paled  I  crouch  beneath  the  old  Fort's  wall, 
The  salt  spray  dashing  to  my  very  feet,. 


612  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

Yea !  up  the  granite  cliffs  and  over  all 

The  sea-side  roofs  it  leaps,  one  blinding  sheet ! 

The  massive  derricks  groan  and  madly  fling 
Their  arms  against  the  shoulders  of  the  blast ; 

The  wire-rope  gnys  like  3"ielding  hempen  swing, 
But  the  north  scarp-wall  standeth  grim  and  fast ! 

Yes !  spite  the  Storm-King's  strong  artillery 
Of  ceaseless  hail  and  sleet  that  loudly  raves, — 

More  dreaded  still,  its  trooping  cavalry, 

White-capped  and  merciless,  the  thun'drous  waves ! 

Firm  as  the  eternal  rocks,  to  the  seaward 
From  its  embrasures  the  unfinished  Fort, 

Though  Ocean  'whelms,  still  looks  stern  and  froward, 
Careless  of  e'en  the  earthquake's  dread  report ! 


THE  DATE-GARDEN  OF  THE  DESERT. 

Faint  and  athirst,  in  arid  wastes  astray, 

Wandered  an  Arab,  parted  from  his  band, 
Who  reached  an  herbless  spot  at  close  of  day, 

Where  cooling  moisture  rose  amid  the  sand. 
Though  weak  and  weary,  to  his  arm-pits  deep 

The  pilgrim  scooped  the  sand  that  wetter  grew ; 
Then,  hopeful,  laid  him  down  to  rest  and  sleep, 

And  round  his  aching  limbs  his  mantle  drew. 

At  early  dawn,  with  trembling  form  he  rose, 

And,  lo !  the  basin  he  at  twilight  made 
Mirrored  the  sun,  and,  strengthened  by  repose, 

He  quaffed  the  fountain,  and  his  thirst  allaj'ed. 
"Allah  be  praised  !"  he  sang  with  bounding  heart, 

And  from  his  scanty  store  of  dates  he  ate  ; 
Both  man  and  beast,  with  strength  renewed,  depart, 

And  reach  their  tribe  where  shifting  sands  abate. 

One  seed  alone  that  morn  unnoticed  fell, 

One  kernel  of  their  fruit  in  that  small  pool, 
Whose  sleeping  germ  awoke  in  its  lone  cell, 

A  tiny  rootlet  kept  by  moisture  cool. 
Behold  !  its  fibrous  threads  sink  slowh"  down, 

A  little  stem  arose,  and  leaves  took  form  ; 
And  feathery  fans  unfold  a  lovely  crown, 

And  cap  a  palin-tree  daring  heat  and  storm. 


GEORGE  BANCROFT  GRIFFITH.  613 

Its  tuft  of  living  greenness  nodded  high, 

Its  blossoming  clusters  perfumed  all  the  waste ; 
Majestic,  pierced  the  unimpeded  sky, 

And  beckoned  all  that  saw  to  thither  haste. 
Far  over  that  secluded,  boundless  plain, 

Its  sweets  exhaled  to  lure  all  living  things,  . 

Till,  midst  its  foliage  finding  rest  again, 

Swift  birds  of  passage  folded  weary  wings. 

Its  ripening  fruits,  like  rubied  gems  of  gold, 

From  luscious  bunches  hung  on  every  limb  ; 
There  insects  hummed,  and  life  grew  manifold  : 

From  man}'  nests  was  breathed  the  birdling's  hymn, 
And  glossy  vines  and  brilliant  shrubs  soon  wound 

Their  loving  bands  around  the  tall,  strong  tree  ; 
Young  palms  arose,  and  o'er  the  naked  ground 

Coarse  grasses  crept,  and  twining  growths  swung  free. 

Ere  long  the  shadows  of  a  little  wood 

Shut  out  the  scorching  beams  of  lurid  sun, 
Where  panting  antelopes  unfrighted  stood. — 

God's  timid  creatures  gathered  one  by  one. 
The  swift  gazelle  and  ostrich  daily  fed 

On  tender  buds  and  herbage  fresh  and  green  ; 
The  golden-hammer  tapped  all  day  o'erhead, 

Nor  aught  disturbed  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

So  years  slipped  by  ;  and  he  who  dropped  the  date 

Within  the  hollow  of  the  lonely  vale, 
Among  his  children's  children  sadly  sate, 

With  age  and  sorrow  drooping,  wan  and  pale  ; 
While  hostile  tribes  annoj-ed  the  kindred  sore, 

And  drouth  had  withered  all  the  sward  around, 
He  called  a  council,  and  long  pondered  o'er 

How  some  relief  from  many  ills  be  found. 

A  sudden  gleam  lit  all  his  rugged  face, 

And  lifted  as  a  cloud  his  load  of  care  ; 
He  sent  his  sons  to  that  lone  garden  place, 

To  see  if  trace  of  moisture  still  was  there  ; — 
That  vale  so  precious  in  the  long  ago, 

When  death  was  baffled  by  the  fount  that  flowed 
From  those  wet  sands, — and,  bowing  faint  and  low, 

Once  more  he  asked  God's  blessing,  oft  bestowed. 

Lo !  the}'  return  with  shouts  and  hurried  tramp, 

''Haste  !  haste,"  they  cry,  "to  that  most  blest  retreat ! 


614  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Yea,  \>\  to-morrow  eve  we  may  encamp 
In  earthly  Eden,  refuge  fruitful,  sweet !" 

The  tears  ran  streaming  from  the  old  man's  e}Tes, — 
"See  what  a  kernel  has  produced,"  he  said, 

"For  our  deliverance  !  I  pray  you  prize 
And  lay  me  'neath  that  palm  when  I  am  dead !" 


THE  CHIME  IN  THE  ANDES. 

On  evergreen  cactus  the  ring-dove  sits  swaying, 
Her  nestward  flight  checking  till  vespers  are  o'er ; 

'Neath  cinnabar  image,  now  chanting,  now  praying, 
The  throng  passes  quickly  through  San  Rosa's  door. 

What  tremulous  joy  fills  the  ancient  rotunda 

As  the  clear  convent  bell  strikes  peal  upon  penl ! 

E'en  the  awe-stricken  tourist  stands  gazing  in  wonder, 
While  o'erladen  bondsmen  with  reverence  kneel. 

The  call  of  the  partridge  is  hushed  in  the  barley, 
The  humming-bird  settles  upon  the  first  spray  ; 

The  peach-dealing  Creole  no  longer  will  parley, — 
She  kneels  by  her  basket  to  silently  pray. 

No  more  by  the  roadside  her  chica  drink  selling, 
The  fair  Guayaquil  tempts  all  with  her  eye  ; 

Those  white  fingers  now  are  her  rosary  telling, 
She  hears  the  rich  chimes  of  the  vespers  float  by ! 

.With  hoe  dropped  beside  them,  'midst  canebrakes  are  kneeling 

The  poor  devotee  and  his  Indian  bride  ; 
And  miners  their  burden,  as  upward  comes  pealing 

The  summons  for  vespers,  fling  quickly  aside. 

The  swift  arriere,  his  mail-horn  uplifting, 

The  glacier  crowned  Andes  to  wake  with  the  blnst, 

Hears  the  chime  of  the  evening  on  fleecy  clouds  drifting, 
And  waits  till  the  last  faintest  echo  has  passed. 

The  restless  Inaja,  that  torrent-fed  river, 

Subdues  its  wild  rushing  a  moment  to  hear 
The  soft,  whispered  cadence  that  breathes  of  our  Saviour, 

There  nightly  repeated,  yet  evermore  dear! 

Where'er  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset  yet  linger, 

O'er  valley  or  table-land  glimmering  far, — 
On  lofty  peak  pointing  its  golden-tipped  linger. 

Where  gloweth  night's  censer,  the  bright  evening  star ; 


MAE  T  ELIZABETH  HOBBS.  6 1 5 

The  mellow  sound  rises,  its  music  prevailing, 
And  circles  round  pyramids  evermore  white  ; 

To  soften  the  voice  of  the  lone  pine  bewailing, 
And  die  in  the  arms  of  the  slow-fading  light ! 


TWILIGHT. 

Lone  watcher,  I  lingered,  on  hill-top  benighted, 

As  dreaming  lay  beautiful  valley  below  ; 
Above  me  the  star-sprinkled  sky,  dimly  lighted, 

And  westward  the  jewels  of  sunset  aglow. 

A  ribbon  of  silver  encircled  the  mountain, 

And,  rising  like  incense  from  altars  of  prayer, 

Mists  pure  as  the  drops  from  the  baptismal  fountain, 
Glowed,  shimmered,  and  faded  on  wings  of  the  air ! 

Lo  !  green-walled  Ascutney  night's  purple  had  tinted, 
His  forehead  cloud-hooded  and  silvered  by  time  ; 

From  summit  to  summit  the  rosy  haze  printed 
The  rich,  tender  smile  of  a  tropical  clime  ! 

The  Pleiades,  fondly  their  silver  braids  twining, 
On  night's  placid  brow  set  their  jewels  once  more  ; 

Not  a  sound  stirred  the  air  save  the  owlet  repining, 
Or  white  heron  piping  its  note  on  the  shore. 

O'er  calm  lake  encircled,  of  summer-time  dreaming, 
The  woods  hung  their  banners  of  frost-smitten  leaves ; 

The  red  shield  of  Mars  from  his  blue  tent  was  gleaming, 
And  evening  winds  sighed  through  the  harps  of  the  sheaves  ! 

Ah!  day  and  night's  nuptials  were  viewless  lips  singing; 

The  star  of  the  evening,  the  planet  of  love, 
As  bride'smaid,  her  censer  of  glory  was  swinging, 

While  smiled  her  attendants  and  beckoned  above ! 

Sandalphon,  majestic,  as  bridegroom  preparing, 
His  flower-wreathed  feet  on  a  ladder  of  gold, 

Ten  thousands  of  stars  in  the  gladness  are  sharing, 
And  Saturn's  bright  fingers  the  wedding-rings  hold. 


IHltfatetf) 


Mrs.  Hobbs,  formerly  Miss  Mary  E.  Erwln,  was  born  in  Bethany,  N.  Y.,  June  21, 
1841.  She  was  educated  at  Bethany  Academy,  and  Cary  Collegiate  Seminary,  in 
her  native  state.  She  was  for  some  time  member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  "Wood's 
Household  Magazine,  published  at  Newburg,  X.  Y.  In  1878  she  became  the  wife 
of  Josiah  Howard  Hobbs,  a  lawyer,  of  Madison,  where  they  reside  at  the  present 
time.  Mrs.  Hobbs  has  the  true  poetic  nature.  She  keenly  appreciates  the  oeauti- 
ful  and  joyous  about  her.  The  poems  here  given  are  copied  from  the  American 
Rural  Home,  a  literary  paper  of  which  she  was  a  contributor. 


616  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

JUNE. 

Month  of  my  heart !  with  what  a  growth  of  green 

Thou  comest  to  the  garland  of  the  year ! 
What  snows  have  sifted,  storms  have  swept  between 

The  June  long  vanished  and  the  June  now  here  ! 
"What  wealth  of  faded  foliage  beneath 

Thy  feet,  forgotten,  lies  in  earth  entombed — 
Sweet  flowers  on  which  the  dying  year  did  breathe, 

Half  opened  petals,  buds  that  never  bloomed  ! 

And  from  the  ashes  of  the  buried  year 

Spring,  phoenix-like,  the  glories  of  to-day  ; 
The  vernal  wrappings  that  thy  forests  wear, 

The  star-strewn  emerald  of  thy  carpet  gay. 
For  thee  alone  the  opening  roses  blush, 

And  breathe  their  fragrance  out  in  many  a  sigh  ; 
The  listless  air  grows  heav}r  with  the  hush, 

And  wooing  zephyrs  faint  in  ecstasy. 

I  hail  thy  coming ;  and  a  gladder  song 

Goes  up  from  every  warbler  of  the  plain  ; 
For  greener  trees  and  bluer  skies  belong 

To  thee  than  any  follower  in  thy  train. 
The  rustling  of  thy  leaf}'  robes  I  heard 

In  the  soft  music  of  the  April  showers, 
And  caught  the  far  off  trill  of  coming  bird, 

And  breathed  the  fragrance  of  thine  unborn  flowers. 

And  thou  art  here  !  I  feel  it  in  the  lull 

That  steals  o'er  nature's  bounding  pulse  to-daj- ; 
The  spring  retires  and  leaves  the  summer  full 

Of  brimming  beauty,  dauntless  of  decay. 
I  hear  thy  presence  in  the  whispering  air, 

The  lifting  leaf,  the  honey-bee's  low  tune, 
The  drowsy  hum  of  insects  everywhere  ; 

The  world  is  full  of  thee,  O  peerless  June  ! 


DIS-ILLUSION. 

The  world  is  a-glint  and  a-glory  to  day, — 

Coruscant,  in  armor  of  ice, 
Not  a  rock-rooted  tree,  not  a  quivering  spray, 

But  is  caught  in  the  crj-stal  device  ; 
Not  a  bramble,  or  weed,  howe'er  humble  and  mean, 
But,  touched  and  transfigured,  belongs  to  the  scene. 


MAR  Y  E LIZ  ABE  TH  HOBBS.  617 

No  last  summer  leaflet  forgetting  to  fall, 

No  seed  left  alone  in  its  blight, 
No  wind  haunted  husk  of  its  gold  emptied  all, 

But  is  glorified  now  in  our  sight, — 
With  pendant  and  sparkle  and  splendor,  I  ween, 
As  earth  never  saw  in  such  scintillant  sheen. 

Through  orchard  and  forest,  and  wild  tangled  wood, 

Stretch  arches  and  arches  away 
Of  crystal  and  coral  and  pearl,  in  the  flood 

Of  deepest  and  down-pouring  day  ; 
While  the  high  hidden  glory  of  heaven  appears 
All  flashing,  reflected  from  earth's  frozen  tears. 

A  sigh  of  the  south  wind,  a  kiss  of  the  sun 
Sends  thrill  after  thrill  through  the  scene, 

Of  swift  disenchantment,  whose  dalliance  done, 
How  vanisheth  shimmer  and  sheen  ; 

But  the}'  bid  us  believe  it  a  prescient  spell 

That  on  tendril  and  tree  doth  their  fruitage  foretell. 

And  life  has  its  glamour,  its  glint  and  its  gold, 
Through  the  touch  of  a  crystalline  spell, 

When,  with  heart  all  a-hush,  it  leans  out  of  its  hold, 
Unfettered,  o'er  shackle  and  cell ; 

When  through  the  mirage  of  its  own  stormy  tears, 

The  guerdon,  the  glory,  the  respite  appears. 

The  sweep  of  the  past  takes  the  tint  of  to-day 

Through  the  crystallized  atom  of  time, 
And  it  touches  the  years  so  receding  and  gray 

With  the  glint  of  a  garment  sublime  ; 
Past,  present  and  future,  —one  infinite  whole, 
Flashes  in  on  the  sight  of  the  halo-held  soul. 

No  far-stalking  shadow,  no  cloud  lurking  low, 

No  dark  day  of  all,  set  apart, 
No  moment  of  time  with  its  measureless  woe 

Held  close  in  the  crucified  heart, — 
But,  transfigured  with  glory,  is  crowned  from  afar 
With  the  promise  and  peace  of  the  Bethlehem  star. 

Life  takes  up  its  tragedies  tearless  and  calm, 

Reviewing  each  anguish  again, 
Beholding  a  beauty  and  breathing  a  balm, 

Where  blight  and  bereavement  had  been  ; 
While  the  rock  and  the  wreck  of  earth's  treacherous  tide 

Alike  are  re-quickened,  alike  glorified. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSIIIEE. 


A  breath  of  the  real  may  shiver  the  scene, 
May  melt  with  iconoclast  touch 

The  miracle-frostwork  that  trembles  between 
Life's  infinite  little  and  much  ; 

But  the  soul  will  lean  back  to  its  burdens  again 

More  patient  and  pure,  for  each  exquisite  pain. 


MISERERE. 

With  lifted  brow  and  sea-blown  hair  she  sits 

Beside  the  open  casement  in  the  gold 
Of  earl}-  evening,  and  there  hardly  flits 

A  flake  of  sail  on  ocean's  bosom  bold 
But  she  descries  it,  with  that  far-off  gaze 

That  gathers  dreams  delusive  in  her  eyes, 
Those  eyes  that  wear  a  depth  of  other  days, 

A  past,  which  all  the  present  underlies. 

Forgetful  she  of  this  her  gilded  home, 

Its  proud  appointments,  and  its  stately  lord, 
Forgotten  too,  as  well,  each  olden  tome 

Of  storied  ancestry,  or  quite  ignored. 
Her  soul  leans  sobbing  out  upon  the  sea, 

The  faithless  sea,  that  brought  no  relic  back 
Of  all  it  bore  away,  so  mockingly, 

Beyond  the  proud  ship's  evanescent  track. 

Alas  !  alas  !  that  all  those  years  went  by, 

Nor  washed  ashore  for  her,  one  shred  of  sail ! 
Alas  !  alas  !  that  pride  and  power  should  sigh 

Around  her  path,  at  last  with  such  avail. 
Her  ashen  lips  essayed  to  whisper  "yes ;" 

Her  hand  was  given,  but  her  heart  was  gone  ; 
Nor  yearning  hope,  nor  gnawing  grief  could  guess 

The  mystery  that  wrapped  the  absent  one. 

And  now  from  him  whose  ways  are  stern  and  cold, 

Whose  tones  are  bitter,  and  whose  words  unkind, 
She  turns  awajr,  and  hates  the  very  gold 

Whose  heavy  links  her  bleeding  pinions  bind. 
She  hears  the  sea-gull  screaming  from  afar, 

The  curlew's  cry  is  music  to  her  ears, 
And  just  beyond  the  hazy  harbor  bar, 

To  her  fond  eye  a  fancied  sail  appears. 

The  vision  deepens  to  a  real^bliss 

That  wipes  away  those  waiting-j'ears  of  pain, 


CHAELES  CHASE  LOUD.  619 

When  on  her  quivering  lips  the  olden  kiss 

Comes  back  with  him  she  welcomes  home  again. 

The  brooding  shadows  built  her  little  cot 

On  some  lone  crag  beside  the  sobbing  sea, 

Where  loving  e}*es  (long  closed  in  ocean-grot !) 
Look  into  hers  and  question  tenderly. 

Nor  tone,  nor  step  breaks  in  upon  her  dream, 

Till  her  cold  hands  are  thrilled  by  the  caress 
Of  babj'-fingers,  and  two  bright  eyes  gleam 

Star-like  across  the  gulf  of  her  distress  ; 
Quick  to  her  hungiy  heart  the  nestling  head 

Is  gathered,  and  again  the  dream  goes  on, — 
Another's  child  her  fond  arms  fold  instead, 

Her  home  another's,  he  the  absent  one. 

Alas  !  for  her  who  dreams  beneath  the  gloam 

With  shadowy  eyes  of  ocean-borrowed  blue  ; 
Alas  !  for  him  whose  cold,  unhallowed  home 

Wears  not  one  love-link  tenderly  and  true. 
Peace,  peace  to  him,  who  'neath  the  warring  waves 

Went  down  to  dreams  more  tranquil  and  serene 
Than  theirs  who  hopeless  watch  beside  the  graves, 

The  living  graves  of  all  that  might  have  been. 


Horir. 

C.  C.  Lord  was  born  in  South  Berwick,  Me.,  July  7, 1841,  but  before  he  attained  to 
recollection  his  parents  removed  to  Newmarket,  and  in  1846  the  family  again  re 
moved  to  Hopkinton,  where  the  home  has  been  most  of  the  time  since.  He  was  ed 
ucated  at  the  Hopkinton,  and  Seabrook  academies,  and  spent  a  brief  time  in  the 
Methodist  Biblical  Institute  at  Concord,  being  at  that  time  a  licentiate  of  the 
Baptist  church.  He  ultimately  became  a  preacher  of  the  doctrines  of  Swedenborg, 
occupying  pulpits  in  Contoocook,  North  Bridgewater,  Mass.,  and  Riverhead,  N.  i . 
In  1868  he  was  ordained  a  missionary,  or  minister  without  formal  settlement,  at 
Orange,  N.  J.  His  work  as  a  preacher  was  very  much  curtailed  by  bodily  illness, 
while,  in  the  end,  his  tendencies  to  speculative  methods  occasioned  his  voluntary 
abnegation  of  a  part  of  the  Swedenborgian  philosophical  system  and  a  consequent 
abandonment  of  the  pulpit  of  the  New  Church  in  1870.  For  the  past  ten  years  he 
has  preached  only  a  tew  sermons,  but  has  given  prominence  to  journalistic  and 
literary  pursuits.  Mr.  Lord  has  written  but  a  few  poems,  all  of  them  brief  and 
somewhat  unique  in  conception. 


FLEUR  DE  LIS. 

While  strolling  in  a  meadow  green, 

Enchanted  by  the  summer  light, 
I  spied  my  heart's  ideal  queen, 

Arraj'ed  in  robes  of  purest  white ; 
I  saw  her  shining  tresses  play, 

Her  beaming  face  the  breezes  fanned, 
And,  looking  sweet  as  blooming  May, 

She  held  an  iris  in  her  hand. 


620  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Such  charms  she  wore  as  daze  the  eye, 

And  fill  the  heart  with  curious  dread, 
Awhile  it  longs  its  fate  to  try, 

And  test  her  love,  as  on  she  sped  ; 
Desire  to  join  her  on  her  way 

Perplexed  my  heart,  which  leaped  to  see, 
While  I  was  doubting  if  I  may, 

She  waved  her  iris  unto  me. 

Together  through  the  mead  we  stra}red, 

Till,  where  a  mound  with  moss  was  grown, 
And  sheltered  by  a  grateful  shade, 

I  longed  to  claim  her  for  my  own  ; 
My  heart  grew  bold  that  happy  daj-, 

Nor  will  I  tell  you  all  the  rest, — 
By  sign,  inditing  that  I  may, 

She  gave  her  iris  to  my  breast. 


HEROISM. 

I  love  the  rare  tradition,  told 

Of  that  old  Roman,  staunch  and  grand, 
Whose  son,  \)y  war's  relentless  hand, 

La}'  dead ;  and,  viewing,  stiff  and  cold, 

The  lifeless  corse,  the  father  spoke 

Such  words  of  stately  grace  and  pride, 
That  nobler  ne'er  of  all  beside 

Out  of  the  depths  of  anguish  broke  : 

"Welcome,  my  son,  who  willing  lent 
A  public  hand  and  shed  thy  blood ; 
I  contemplate  the  glorious  flood, 

And  count  thy  wounds  magnificent! 

"Since  war  divides  the  state  of  Rome, 
My  face  confused  with  shame  would  glow, 
If  neither  cloud  nor  shade  of  woe 

Had  dimmed  the  sunshine  of  my  home." 

Thus  he,  in  nobleness  elate, 

Expressed  the  type  and  element 
Of  social  worth  and  true  intent 

That  dignified  the  Roman  state. 

We  contemplate  the  ancient  days, 
Of  savage  aims  and  kindred  deeds, 
And  bless  the  Power  that  kindly  leads 

Our  willing  feet  in  gentler  ways  ; 


CHARLES  CHASE  LORD.  621 

Nor  yet  renounce  a  pride  to  own 

The  man  of  true  and  honest  heart, 

Who  freely  takes  a  common  part, 
Nor  ever  thinks  of  self,  alone. 

A  hei'o  he  of  modern  times, 

Who,  lending  ear  to  public  cares, 

A  sympathetic  burden  bears, 
Nor  recks  the  cost  in  cents  and  dimes. 

In  him  the  blush  of  shame  will  burn, 

If  haply  common  griefs  abound, 

And  he  has  neither  sorrow  found, 
Nor  felt  misfortune  in  his  turn  ; 

Or  if  some  urgent  hour  has  come, 

And  he  disclosed  no  zeal  to  rise 

And  grasp  a  loyal  victor's  prize, 
Or  seize  the  crown  of  martyrdom, 

Though  careless  he  of  idle  fame, 

His  works  to  deeper  chords  appeal 

In  kindred  souls,  who  own  and  feel 
An  inspiration  in  his  name  ; 

And  when  grim  death  his  face  debars 

From  human  eyes,  a  thankful  praise 

Repeats  his  name,  recalls  his  days, 
And  writes  his  memoir  in  the  stars. 


THE  ROBE  OF  WHITE. 

I  see  a  thousand  forms  that  try, 
By  varied  hues,  to  lure  my  sight, 

But  keep  my  praise  for  one  I  spy 
That  glories  in  a  robe  of  white. 

This  one,  as  coming  from  the  sphere 
Of  sacred  love  and  holy  light, 

Appears  in  mould  select  and  dear, 
Outlining  of  the  robe  of  white. 

The  visions  glide  and  leave  no  trace 
Or  fond  impress  of  being  bright, 

Save  this  that  bears  angelic  grace, 
And  wears  a  spotless  robe  of  white. 

I  often  wonder  why  the  mien 
And  aspect  of  a  radiant  sprite 


622  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

Forever  and  for  a}'e  is  seen, 
Apparelled  in  a  robe  of  white  ; 

And  why  this  ardor  of  the  heart 
To  gaze,  nor  turning  left  nor  right, 

And  fain  ignore  compounded  art, 
To  dote  upon  a  robe  of  white. 

Sometimes  a  fancy  of  the  mind 
Conceives  of  some  celestial  height 

Attained  within,  its  worth  to  find 
Evolvent  in  a  robe  of  white  ; 

And  then  I  apprehend  some  tone 
And  fervor  of  an  inward  plight, 

That  knows  some  accent  of  its  own 
Responsive  to  a  robe  of  white. 

I  cannot  see  whereby  the  spell, 
That  never  seemeth  old  or  trite, 

The  force  conserves  to  always  dwell 
Upon  a  simple  robe  of  white ; 

But  know  its  mystic  skill  to  prove 
The  measure  of  a  fond  delight, 

And  adoration  deep  to  move, 
Reflecting  on  a  robe  of  white. 

I  deem  this  transport  ma}r  endure 
The  while  my  soul  foregoes  its  flight, 

My  theme  submissive  to  the  pure 
Enchantment  of  the  robe  of  white  ; 

And  when  I  bid  farewell  the  day, 
To  hasten  to  the  shades  of  night, 

Would  crave  for  love  another  ray 
Of  greeting  from  the  robe  of  white. 


&nnte  Douglas  l&obiusou. 

Mrs.  Annie  Douglas  Robinson,  formerly  Miss  Green,  known  in  literature  a*  M;ir 
ian  Douglas,  is  a  native  of  Plymouth,  and  a  resident  of  Bristol.  Her  poem-  h;ivc  ir 
regularly  and  infrequently  appeared  in  many  different  magazines  but  she  is  bt-M 
and  most  willingly  known  as  a  writer  of  poetry  for  children.  Two  volumes,  lie- 
ture  Poems  and  Peter  and  Polly,  a  prose  story,  were  published  by  Osgood  and  Co- 


DORCAS. 

The  honest  heart  may  well  be  proud 
An  honest  tear  to  shed  ; 


ANNIE  DOUGLAS  EOBINSON.  623 

With  loving  hand  I  sew  her  shroud  ; 
The  good  old  soul  is  dead. 

She  died  as  she  had  lived — alone ; 

We  found  her — not  one  trace 
Of  the  last  fearful  passion  shown 

By  her  dear  withered  face. 

Reproach,  regret,  were  all  in  vain  ; 

'Twas  like  her  so  to  die, 
As  if  to  save  our  hearts  the  pain 

Of  bidding  her  good-by. 

How  poor  and  plain  she  used  to  be ! 

How  generous  and  how  kind  ! 
She  left  a  blessed  memory 

And  three  black  gowns,  behind. 

The  little  place  she  used  to  rent 

Will  be  a  lonely  spot ; 
A  certain  grace  her  presence  lent 

To  bouse  and  garden-plot. 

The  children  swung  upon  her  gate 

And  watched  her  apples  fall, 
And  still,  like  some  benignant  fate, 

She  smiled  upon  them  all. 

The  roses  on  her  window  tree 

Were  plucked  before  they  bloomed  ; 
And  lavender  and  sanctity 

Her  quiet  rooms  perfumed. 

She  rests,  at  last,  from  pain  and  woe  ; 

She  sees  God's  perfect  will ; 
And  yet,  though  free  from  care,  I  know 

She  must  be  busy  still. 

Perchance,  while  through  the  golden  air 

The  heavenly  music  swells, 
She  shows  some  little  angel  where 

To  find  the  asphodels. 

Or,  sent  with  mercies  from  the  skies 

To  comfort  souls  unblest, 
She  flies,  God's  bird  of  paradise, 

On  wings  that  cannot  rest. 


G24  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Glad  be  her  flight !  She  rises  o'er 
The  cloud  that  round  us  lowers  ; 

The  tears  shall  fill  her  eyes  no  more 
That  gather  fast  in  ours. 


THE  YELLOW  COTTAGE. 

Mid  fields  with  useless  daisies  white, 

Between  a  river  and  a  wood, 

With  not  another  house  in  sight, 

The  low-roofed  yellow  cottage  stood, 

Where  I, 

Long  years  ago,  a  little  maid, 

Through  all  life's  rosy  morning  pla}red. 

No  other  child  the  region  knew  ; 

M}'  only  playmate  was  myself, 

And  all  our  books,  a  treasured  few, 

Were  gathered  on  a  single  shelf ; 

But,  oh ! 

Not  wealth  a  king  might  prize  could  be 

What  those  old  volumes  were  to  me  ! 

On  winter  nights,  beside  the  fire, 

In  summer,  sitting  in  the  door, 

I  turned,  with  love  that  did  not  tire, 

Their  well-worn  pages  o'er  and  o'er ; 

In  me, 

Though  sadly  fallen  it  is  true, 

Their  heroines  all  lived  anew  ! 

One  day,  about  my  neck  a  ruff 

Of  elder  flowers  with  fragrant  breath, 

I  was,  with  conscious  pride  enough 

To  suit  the  part,  Elizabeth  ; 

The  next, 

Ensnared  by  many  \v\\y  plots, 

I  sighed,  the  hapless  Queen  of  Scots  ! 

Where  darting  swallows  used  to  flit, 

Close  to  me  on  some  jutting  rocks, 

Above  the  river,  I  would  sit 

For  hours  and  wreathe  rny  j-ellow  locks, 

And  trill 

A  child's  shrill  song,  and,  singing,  play 

It  was  a  siren's  witching  lay. 


ANNIE  DOUGLAS  EOBINSON.  625 

On  Sundays,  underneath  the  tree 

That  overhung  the  orchard  wall, 

While  watching,  one  by  one,  to  see 

The  ripe,  sweet  apples  fall, 

I  tried 

My  very  best  to  make  believe 

I  was  in  Eden  and  was  Eve  ! 

Oh,  golden  hours  !  when  I,  to-day, 

Would  make  a  truce  with  care, 

No  more  of  queens,  in  bright  array, 

I  dream,  or  sirens  fair  ; 

In  thought, 

I  am  again  the  little  maid 

Who  round  the  yellow  cottage  plaj'ed  ! 


PATIENCE  DOW. 

Home  from  the  mill  came  Patience  Dow, 
She  did  not  smile,  she  would  not  talk  ; 
And  now  she  was  all  tears,  and  now 
As  fierce  as  is  a  captive  hawk. 
Unmindful  of  her  faded  gown, 
She  sat  with  folded  hands  all  day, 
Her  long  hair  falling  tangled  down, 
Her  sad  eyes  gazing  far  away, 
Where,  past  the  fields,  a  silver  line, 
She  saw  the  distant  river  shine. 
But  when  she  thought  herself  alone, 
One  night,  they  heard  her  muttering  low, 
In  such  a  chill,  despairing  tone, 
It  seemed  the  east  wind's  sullen  moan  : 
"Ah  me  !  the  days,  they  move  so  slow  ! 
I  care  not  if  they're  fair  or  foul ; 
The_y  creep  along — I  know  not  how  ; 
I  only  know  he  loved  me  once — 
He  does  not  love  me  now  !" 

One  morning,  vacant  was  her  room  ; 

And,  in  the  clover  wet  with  dew, 

A  narrow  line  of  broken  bloom 

Showed  some  one  had  been  passing  through  ; 

And,  following  the  track,  it  led 

Across  a  field  of  summer  grain, 

Out  where  the  thorn}'  blackberries  shed 

Their  blossoms  in  the  nari'ow  lane, 

Down  which  the  cattle  went  to  drink, 


626  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

In  summer,  from  the  river's  brink. 
"The  river !"  Hope  within  them  sank  ; 
The  fatal  thought  that  drew  her  there 
They  knew,  before,  among  the  rank, 
White-blossomed  weeds  upon  the  bank, 
They  found  the  shawl  she  used  to  wear, 
And  on  it  pinned  a  little  note : 
"Oh,  blame  me  not !"  it  read,  "for  when 
I  once  am  free,  my  soul  will  float 
To  him  !  He  cannot  leave  me  then  ! 
I  know  not  if  'tis  right  or  wrong — 
I  go  from  life — I  care  not  how  ; 
I  only  know  he  loved  me  once — 
He  does  not  love  me  now  !" 

In  the  farm  graveyard,  'neath  the  black, 
Funereal  pine-trees  on  the  hill, 
The  poor,  worn  form  the  stream  gave  back 
They  laid  in  slumber,  cold  and  still. 
Her  secret  slept  with  her ;  none  knew 
Whose  fickle  smile  had  left  the  pain 
_  That  cursed  her  life  ;  to  one  thought  true, 
Her  vision-haunted,  wandering  brain, 
Secure  from  all,  hid  safe  from  blame, 
In  life  and  death  had  kept  his  name. 
Yet,  often,  with  a  thrill  of  fear, 
Her  mother,  as  she  lies  awake 
At  night,  will  fancy  she  can  hear 
A  voice,  whose  tone  is  like  the  drear, 
Low  sound  the  graveyard  pine-trees  make  : 
"I  know  not  if 'tis  right  or  wrong — 
I  go  from  life — I  care  not  how  : 
I  only  know  he  loved  me  once — 
He  does  not  love  me  now  !" 


Otlarfc  13.  OTodjranc. 

Clark  B.  Cochrane  was  born  In  New  Boston,  February  9,  1843.  He  was  educated 
mostly  at  Kimball  Union  Academy,  and  studied  law  at"  Albany  University  in  New 
York.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  18G5,  and  after  following  his  profession  with 
good  success  was  obliged  to  leave  it  on  account  of  a  disease  which  rendered  undue 
excitement  hazardous  to  life.  He  returned  to  his  native  town,  and  in  1S73  removed 
to  Antrim,  where  he  ia  engaged  in  mercantile  and  manufacturing  pursuits.  An 
elegant  volume  of  his,  entitled,  "Minora,  and  Other  Poems,"  was  issued  from  the 
Riverside  Frees  In  1SC9. 


THE  DAYS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

Oh,  time,  upon  whose  viewless  wing 
The  fleeting  seasons  come  and  go, 


CLARK  B.  COCHRANE.  627 


Instruct  my  truant  muse  to  sing 
The  better  days  of  long  ago. 

The  present  may,  perchance,  beguile 
My  passions  while  its  moments  last ; 

But  fortune's  best  and  dearest  smile 
Is  buried  in  the  silent  past. 

And  I  would  gladty  now  resign 

All  that  the  future  has  for  me, 
To  spend  one  hour  of  sweet  lang  syne, 

Dear  Mary,  with  the  past  and  thee. 

But  that,  alas  !  can  never  be 
The  fate  of  fancy's  hapless  son  ; 

And  unrelenting  destiny, 

With  cruel  finger,  beckons  on. 

I  see  the  future,  dark  and  dim, 

Before  my  mortal  vision  rise  ; 
The  3'ears,  like  banished  seraphim, 

Are  marching  by  me  in  disguise. 

My  days  are  dark  and  cheerless  now, 
Since  time  cannot  reverse  its  flight ; 

Oblivion's  hand  is  on  my  brow 

And  beckons  down  the  pall  of  night. 

Yet  sometimes  in  these  darker  hours 
I  dream  of  better  days  in  trust ; 

But  when  I  reach  to  pluck  the  flowers 
Of  youth,  the}'  turn  to  senseless  dust! 

New  England  !  on  thy  glorious  hills 
I  stand  in  thought,  a  moment  free  ; 

I  hear  the  music  of  thy  rills, 
Nature's  low  notes  of  liberty ! 

And  where  my  long  lost  love  reclines 
In  welcome  shade  I  kneel  to  woo  ; 

And  nature's  lyre  of  mountain  pines 
Breathes  soft  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

But  ah  !  the  witching  vision  flies, 

And  facts  are  sterner  things  than  dreams  ; 
Sweet  Mary's  dark  and  solemn  eyes 

No  longer  watch  thy  purling  streams  ! 

Oh,  they  have  changed  from  what  the}"  were 
When  last  the}-  shot  their  fire  at  me  ;. 


628  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


At  least,  such  is  my  dream  of  her 
Upon  this  dark  and  stormy  sea, — 

That  in  a  fairer  clime  above, — 

The  climax  of  the  dreams  of  this — 

The4y  wear  the  same  old  look  of  love, 
That  once  to  me  was  more  than  bliss. 


NOON  BY  LAKE  SUNAPEE. 

'Neath  groves  of  maple  and  the  tall  plumed  pine 

By  Sunapee's  fair  lake  we  linger  long, 

Morn  rises  unto  noon,  and  all  the  kine 

On  sun-bathed  hills,  the  far-grouped  shade  trees  throng ; 

In  all  the  wood  the  wild  birds  pour  their  song 

From  homes  of  rest  in  leafy  branches  cool, 

The  plodding  farmer,  listening  for  the  gong, 

Bathes  his  swart  forehead  in  the  limpid  pool ; 

Calm  as  the  blue  depths  of  the  quiet  sky 

The  glistening  waters  spread  before  the  eye, 

While  small  white  clouds,  slow  sailing  from  the  west, 

Are  mirrored  in  their  bosom  lovingly, 

Below  where  new-born  lilies  lie  at  rest 

Like  affluent  pearls  on  some  fair  lady's  breast. 

Loveliest  day  of  all  the  lovely  summer, 

Dreamy,  delicious,  wearing  on  to  eve  ! 

Monotoned  by  many  a  joyous  hummer 

Whose  loss  ere  long  the  browning  earth  will  grieve. 

Hark  !  the  partridge,  the  impetuous  drummer, 

Thrumming;  his  love  call  in  the  dim  old  wood, 

Ruffling  the  stillness  of  its  solitude  ! 

The  meadow  lark,  low  in  the  scented  clover, 

Holds  converse  with  the  matron  of  his  brood  ; 

Over  long  fields,  the  gray  disporting  plover 

Bends  piping  to  the  ground,  an  arc  of  song; 

The  crow  upon  the  mountain  calleth  long, 

Or  watcheth,  from  his  signal  porch  forlorn, 

His  consort  pilfering  the  planted  corn. 

Oh,  how  delightful  is  the  mountain  air 
Cooled  on  thy  crested  water,  Sunapee  ! 
We  wonder  if  lake  Leman  is  more  fair, 
More  sweet  the  gales  of  storied  Arab}'. 
We  breathe  the  breath  of  lilies  and  the  bairn 
Of  woods  forever  green,  while,  from  the  calm 


CLAEK  B.  COCHEANE.  629 

Like  sounds  of  far-off  voices  drawing  near, 
The  coming  of  the  summer  wind  we  hear 
In  the  long  branches  rising  like  a  psalm 
Of  peace  upon  thy  shore  ;  more  sweet,  more  clear 
Than  song  of  angels  to  the  morning  star, 
When,  from  the  rifted  darkness  of  old  time, 
Kearsarge  and  Sunapee  arose  sublime 
To  watch  thy  face  forever,  from  afar. 


THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL. 

I  am  dreaming  to-night  of  my  boyhood's  prime, 
Of  days  that  now  seem  like  the  sound  of  a  rhj-me 
When  the  voice  of  the  singer  is  still ; 
And  somebody's  spirit  is  leading  me  back, 
Along  a  rough  and  a  weary  track, 
To  the  old  red  house  on  the  hill. 

How  well  I  remember  that  dearly  loved  spot ; 

No  place  could  be  dear  whe^e  my  Mary  was  not, 

No  other  my  fancy  could  fill ; 

For  oft  when  my  feet  were  too  weary  to  roam, 

I  turned,  like  a  pilgrim  hastening  home, 

To  the  old  red  house  on  the  hill. 

And  when  the  red  moon  was  a-climbing  the  sky, 
And  night  spread  its  star-sprinkled  banner  on  high, 
We  listened  the  lone  whippoorwill ; 
And  while  we  forgot  all  our  sorrow  and  care,       * 
The  poplar  trees  lifted  their  branches  in  prayer, 
By  the  old  red  house  on  the  hill. 

Oh,  the  poplar  trees  stand  by  the  old  house  yet — 
Their  murmuring  leaves,  by  the  gentle  dews  wet, 
Are  feeling  the  summer's  warm  thrill — 
But  the  maiden  is  gone  from  the  open  door, 
And  my  weary  feet  shall  be  rested  no  more 
In  the  old  red  house  on  the  hill. 

Ah  me  !  Can  it  be  ?  Is  it  only  a  dream  ? 

Shall  I  never  again  in  the  sunset's  gleam, 

When  the  odors  of  evening  distil 

Like  ambrosial  balm  on  the  soft  summer  air, 

Press  the  hand  and  the  lips  that  once  waited  me  there 

In  the  old  red  house  on  the  hill? 


fi30  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


It's  only  a  dream  as  I  look  at  it  now, 

With  darkness  and  dust  on  the  beautiful  brow 

That  I  kissed  by  the  old  door-sill ! 

Will  it  be  but  a  dream  where  she  waits  afar? 

Shall  we  think,  mid  the  vales  of  the  evening  star, 

Of  the  old  red  house  on  the  hill? 


TO  OLD  JOE  ENGLISH. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  !     At  last  it  must  be  said  : 
Farewell,  old  mountain,  on  whose  lofty  crest 

My  boyhood's  feet  were  ever  wont  to  tread, 
When  the  slant  sun  was  sinking  down  to  rest, 
Behind  the  old,  romantic  hills  that  shut  the  golden  west. 

My  heart  is  breaking  !  tears  from  either  eye, 
Those  little  emblems  of  the  great  in  soul, 

Are  falling  like  the  rain  !  are  falling — why  ? 

That  I  must  leave  thee,  mount,  o'er  whom  doth  roll 

The  angry  clouds,  the  thunder  crash  of  Lucifer's  black  scroll ! 

My  sires  have  dwelt  beneath  thy  brow  long  years  ; 

Thou  wert  to  them  a  friend  both  true  and  fast ; 
Thy  paths  have  known  their  feet,  thy  shade  their  tears, 

Through  the  dim  seasons  of  the  silent  past ; 

And  still  to  me  thou  art  a  friend  and  would  be  to  the  last. 

When  with  a  smile  the  dappled  Morning  flung 
Her  sun-breathed  glances  from  the  purple  east, 

Entranced*  I  listened  to  the  magic  tongue 

Of  nature's  friendship,  though  the  first,  not  least, 
While  Daphne  spread  for  me  her  ever  welcome  feast. 

And  when  that  low  descending,  summer  sun 
Shone  glowing!}',  aslant  the  mottled  sky, 

I  watched  the  shadows  climbing,  one  by  one, 
Among  the  centuried  oaks,  as  noiselessly 
As  though  the}'  grieved  to  see  the  daylight  fade  and  die. 

Beside  thee  dwelt  a  maiden,  darkly  fair ; 

Her  soul  was  pure  as  summer's  azure  skies ; 
I  placed  the  wild  flowers  in  her  shining  hair, 

And  kissed  her  lips — then  oh,  my  mad  surprise  ! 

That  death  should  touch  that  blooming  face,  and  pale  those 
flashing  eyes ! 

God  of  my  fathers  !  it  is  strange  indeed  ! 

The  fairest  flowers,  the  brightest  gems,  of  earth 


CLARK  B.  COCHEANE.  631 


Are  torn  away  from  hearts  that  break  and  bleed, 
While  those  are  left  of  none  or  little  worth, 
To  mock  the  name  of  Beauty,  and  her  heritage  by  birth. 

'Twas  at  thy  foot  the  fair  Sevilla  fell 

By  murderous  hand  upon  the  virgin  snow — 

And  her  fierce  lover,  whom  the  fiends  of  hell 
Might  fitly  be  ashamed  of,  if  to  know 
A  viler  dwelt  on  earth,  could  cause  a  blush  below. 

He  sleeps  to-day  within  a  culprit's  grave, 

And  no  tongue  mentions  but  to  curse  his  name ; 

Till  old  Oblivion's  all-assuaging  wave 
Shall  blot  the  record  of  his  evil  fame  ; 
Vile  homicide  !  who  puts  the  bloodiest  wretcli  to  shame  ! 

But  she  will  live  forever,  conquering  death  ; 
And  when  the  spirit  of  eternal  good 

Shall  pour  along  the  summer  gale  his  Breath, 
Her  chainless  soul  will  wander  in  thy  wood, 
Free  as  the  mountain  air  of  thy  sweet  solitude ! 

Reclining  here  beneath  this  giant  oak, 
Where  oft  the  dusky  wooer  met  his  love, 

I  hear  the  silence  by  her  whispers  broke, 
Soft  as  the  love  notes  of  the  mated  dove, 
Or  faint  and  distant  echo  of  some  choir  above. 

And  when  within  thy  leafy  recess  lingers 

The  wood-lark's  breathings,  like  the  songs  of  Aiden, 

I've  seen  thy  wild  rose  plucked  by  viewless  fingers, 
And  floated  on  the  breezes,  perfume  laden  ; 
And  then  I  know  the  presence  of  the  hapless  maiden ! 

And  legends  old  are  floating  through  my  brain, 
A  thousand  idle  and  discordant  fancies ; 

I  see  Joe  English,  in  his  plumes  again, 

March  down  the  war-trail  of  his  old  romances — 

And  now  the  painted  savage  round  the  war-fire  dances ! 

Through  thy  green  groves  resounds  the  clash  of  arms, 

And  death's  relentless  angel  gluts  his  ire  ; 
The  Indian  war-cry,  with  its  dread  alarms, 

Speaks  far  and  wide  of  tomahawk  and  fire ; 

And  now  the  bleeding  captives  around  the  stake  expire  ! 

When  Liberty,  from  out  her  dungeon  baiTed, 

Sent  her  faint  cheer  for  Concord's  battle  won, 
The  thrice  accursed  tories  basely  marred 


632  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy  fair  traditions  ;  and,  towards  the  slanting  sun, 
Hurled  down,  in  burning  effigy,  the  patriot  Washington  ! 

Oh,  let  them  have  no  pity,  but  the  scorn 

Of  freemen's  sons  through  everlasting  time  ! 
The  meanest  enemies  of  man  yet  born, 

They  wallowed  in  the  God-insulting  slime 

Of  treachery,  blacker  than  the  foulest  crime  ! 

The  Arnolds  of  Perdition,  justly  damned, — 

Their  names  shall  blot  th}r  history's  pages  ! 
Their  souls  shall  be  a  stench  in  Hell,  and  jammed 

In  the  black  den  where  pain  relentless  rages, 

Shall  writhe  in  agony  of  endless  ages  ! 

But  all  is  changed  save  thy  unchanging  form ; 

The  conflict's  diapason  sounds  no  more, 
And  naught  disturbs  thy  silence  but  the  storm 

That  howls  among  thy  branches,  as  of  yore  ; 

And  peace  and  plenty  smile  upon  my  native  shore. 

And  since  those  days  the  fleeting  years  of  time 
Have  borne  into  the  past  these  visions  gory ; 

And  standing  here,  upon  the  verge  sublime 
Of  two  eternities,  I  see  thy  story — 
Thy  mystic  legends  fading  upon  the  page  of  glon*. 

Alas  !  that  Fate,  with  dark  and  stern  decree, 
Should  bid  that  I  in  other  lands  must  roam, 

Far  from  the  friends  I  ever  loved,  and  thee, 
O  mountain,  that  beside  my  earl}'  home, 
Pointest  thy  regal  head  up  to  the  welkin  dome  ! 

But  it  is  so ;  and  why  do  I  stand  here, 
And  cavil  at  the  things  I  cannot  change, 

And  not  resign  u^'self  unto  my  sphere, 

And  through  this  world  of  death  and  sorrow  range, 
Companion  unto  doubt  and  fear,  and  all  that's  dark  and  strange  ? 

Away,  thou  phantom  !  quick  !  the  spell  is- o'er  ; 

0  come  !  blest  spirit  that  enchantment  lends, 
Into  m}*  bosom  all  thy  nectar  pour ! 

With  other  mountains  I  will  make  new  friends, 

Nor  yet  forget  the  one  with  thoughts  of  childhood  blends  ! 

I  never  can  forget  those  happ}'  hours 

1  whiled  away  beneath  th\-  oaken  shade  ; 
Hearing  the  wild  birds  in  their  vocal  bowers  ; 

Reading  with  jo}',  and  yet  with  little  heed, 

Nature's  sublimest  volume,  spread  out  where  all  may  read. 


FRANK  0.  EVERETT.  G33 

And  in  the  fleeting  %years,  when  far  away, 

My  bark  is  tossed  upon  life's  troubled  stream, 

My  thoughts  shall  turn,  O  mountain  old  and  gray, 
Back  unto  thee,  my  boyhood's  earty  theme, 
Thou  monumental  pile,  that  meet'st  the  sun's  first  beam. 


jfranfc  ©.  3Eberett 


F.  O.  Everett  is  a  photographer  and  has  a  studio  in  Nashua.  He  was  born  in 
Dover,  November  10,  1844.  His  parents  moved  to  Manchester  when  he  was  about 
two  years  old.  He  was  educated  in  the  schools  of  Manchester.  He  began  his  ca 
reer  as  a  printer  at  an  early  age,  and  followed  that  business  ten  years,  when  he 
changed  the  stick  for  the  camera. 


MABEL. 

Can  it  be  ?  Can  it  be  ?  This  impress  so  sweet ; 

The  smile  on  those  dear,  dainty  lips  we  have  pressed  ; 
Those  large,  wondrous  eyes  in  their  mystical  sleep  ; 

The  shapely  hand  resting  so  still  on  her  breast. 

0  darling !  Is  this,  then,  the  lamb  of  our  fold, 
Asleep  in  the  arms  of  Death,  silent  and  cold  ? 

Hush  !  Do  not  wake  her  !  The  angels  forbid  ! 

Let  me  raise  the  soft  lids  from  her  luminous  e3'es. 

1  know  I  shall  find  underneath  them  is  hid 

The  great,  shining  gateway  of  Paradise. 
And  lo !  they  are  looking  straight  up  to  the  stars, 
While  heaven  its  flood-light  of  beauty  unbars. 

I  press  any  ear  close  to  her  heart ;  in  its  hush 

It  never  responds  to  my  plaintiful  call ; 
Nor  sends  to  my  questioning  one  throbbing  flush 

To  break  the  deep  darkness  that  broods  over  all. 
At  rest !  with  her  hand  nestled  under  her' cheek, 
She  smiles  as  if  angels  had  lulled  her  to  sleep. 

I  will  take  her  up  gently  again  as  of  old  ; 

I  will  breathe  in  her  face  life's  awakening  breath  ; 
And  while  round  my  treasure  these  strong  arms  enfold 

She'll  whisper  and  tell  me  the  secrets  of  death. 
I  will  coo  in  her  cold  face  some  soft  "baby-bye" 
Till  her  wee,  tiny  spirit  returns  from  the  sky. 

No  answer?  No  word  from  the  closely-sealed  lips? 

No  lingering  breath  from  the  half-ripened  mouth? 
A  mouth  that  seems  borne  on  aerial  ships 

From  some  shining  sunland  afar  to  the  south. 
No  word  ?  While  my  poor  heart  is  breaking,  the  while 
You  lie  there  asleep  with  a  heavenly  smile  ! 


634  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


0  darling !  forgive  me  ! — I'll  question  no  more. 
Aye,  even  if  power  were  given  to-night 

1  would  not  recall  from  that  shadowy  shore 

Your  pure,  tender  soul  down  its  trackway  of  light. 
You  shall  shine  in  our  lives  like  some  radiant  star, 
With  a  gleam  that  no  doubt-shadows  ever  can  mar. 


fHattin, 


Miss  Martin  was  born  In  the  city  of  St.  John,  X.  B.,  June  15, 1843.    Since  1857  she 
has  lived  in  Shaker  Village,  Canterbury. 


"LOVE  ONE  ANOTHER." 

Let  thy  deeds  like  sunlight  falling 

Where  the  shadows  often  stay, — 
And  thy  voice  in  loving  accents 

Cheer  the  weary  o'er  life's  way. 
We  are  all  so  weak  and  needy, 

Deeds  of  love  and  tender  care 
Are  the  sweetest  joys  that  mingle 

With  our  battle  and  our  prayer. 

Then  let  soul  with  soul  be  blended 

In  life's  active,  earnest  strife  ; 
Thus  by  loving  one  another 

Be  renewed  from  life  to  life. 
We  are  children  of  one  Father 

Sharers  in  his  love  divine, — 
Why  not,  then,  as  friends  and  brothers, 

Round  each  heart  affections  twine? 

Best  amid  the  pearls  that  glitter 

In  the  victor's  diadem, 
Is  the  one  of  purest  water, — 

Love,  the  brilliant  sparkling  gem. 
This  the  halo  of  our  Saviour, 

This  the  glory  of  his  strife  ; 
Let  us  weave  its  radiant  brightness 

In  the  fabric  of  our  life. 


CONSECRATION. 

Here  I  pledge  my  earnest  spirit 
To  be  thine,  forever,  Lord, 


JAMES  G.  RUSSELL.  635 


Claiming  not  a  single  merit, 
Only  knowledge  of  thy  word. 

I  have  walked  in  paths  forbidden, 
And  engaged  my  soul  abroad  ; 

Now  I  seek  the  path  that's  hidden, 
And  forgiveness  of  my  God. 

Take  my  will  and  guide  it,  Father, 
In  the  work  thou'dst  have  me  do  ; 

All  my  life  I  would  surrender, 
In  thy  service  e'er  be  true. 

I  would  tell  of  loving  kindness, 
Truth  and  justice  of  thy  way  ; 

Light  restore,  to  those  in  blindness, 
Till  they  walk  in  perfect  day. 


HOUR  OF  WORSHIP. 

I  love  the  hour  of  worship, 

Where  angels  gather  nigh  ; 
With  heavenly  inspiration, 

To  raise  our  thoughts  on  high. 
I  love  to  offer  pledges, 

Before  my  Father's  throne  ; 
Which  will  redeem  from  error, 

And  draw  his  blessing  down. 

I  love  to  know  my  spirit 

Is  blending  with  the  pure  ; 
That  I  am  storing  treasures, 

Eternally  secure. 
And  thus  I  feel  exalted, 

Yet  humble,  when  I  see 
How  good  in  all  his  dealings 

Mv  God  has  been  to  me. 


James  (& 

J.  G.  Russell  wai  born  in  Norwich,  Vt.  His  parents  embraced  the  doctrines  of 
Shakerism  and  moved  into  the  Society  at  Entield,  with  their  family,  in  184(5,  when 
James  was  but  two  years  old,  where  he  was  educated  and  became  a  faithful  adher 
ent  to  the  Shaker  faith. 


"WHAT  LACK  I  YET?" 

Good  Master,  what  would st  thou  have  me  to  do, 
That  I  may  have  eternal  life  in  thee  ? 


63G  •  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  seek  a  part  within  thy  kingdom  new  ; 

What  further  sacrifice  remains  for  me? 

The  things  that  thou  hast  mentioned — all  have  I 

Most  sacredly  observed,  and  ever  set 

My  heart  intent  on  godliness,  whereby 

I  would  in  truth  be  free  :  what  lack  I  yet? 

Loved  one — the  goodly  Master  now  responds — 

If  perfect  thou  wouldst  be,  go  sell  thine  all, 

And  give  unto  the  poor,  release  their  bonds, 

Then  come  and  follow  me.     Most  blessed  call ! 

And  yet  behold  the  sorrowful  effect ! 

The  sacrifice  too  great,  for  great  indeed 

Were  earth's  possessions,  thus  to  resurrect 

And  unto  God  the  miser'd  soul  to  lead. 

Awa}*  the  anxious  face  with  sorrow  turns, 

With  feelings  of  dismay  and  deep  regret, 

Though  for  eternal  life  the  spirit  yearns — 

Comes  forth  in  words  of  grief — "much  lack  I  yet !" 

Ah,  is  the  sacrifice  too  great  to  make? 

A  life  of  worldliness  to  lay  aside? 

The  Christian  pathwa}r  cheerfulty  to  take  ? 

And  in  the  loving  grace  of  God  abide? 

Thou  surety  shalt  have  treasures  stored  in  heaven, 

If  cheerfully  the  price  thou'lt  fully  pa}-, 

If  unto  God  thy  time  and  stength  be  given, 

To  walk  with  care  the  self-denying  way, 

Though  worldly  riches  be  the  selfish  part, 

That  calls  for  sacrifice,  though  great  or  small, 

Or  be  the  idol  sinfulness  of  heart, 

That  seeks  indulgence,  allied  to  the  fall ; 

Whatever  be  the  part  for  sacrifice, 

If  God's  pure  love  is  all  in  all  to  thee, 

From  worldly  loves  and  pleasures  thou  ma}''st  rise, 

And  in  my  kingdom  have  a  part  with  me. 


gamucl 

Baron  S.  Crowell,  only  son  of  thelate  Samuel  Crowell,  was  born  in  Newport,  N"v. 
8,  1H14.  He  was  an  invalid  most  of  his  life,  made  so  by  an  imprudent,  bath  taken 
when  too  warm.  He  died  June  17, 1872. 


CHARITY. 

Let  us  never  judge  our  neighbor, 
Though  his  light  be  very  dim, 

For  we  cannot  know  the  trials 
All  iu  secret  borne  by  him. 


THOMAS  FEANCI8  IEAHY.  637 

We  may  ne'er  suspect  his'  sorrows, 

Note  his  crosses  or  his  cares  ; 
Never  guess  his  hopes  and  longings, 

Never  hear  his  earnest  prayers. 

But  his  silent  supplications, 

Though  to  mortals  never  known, 
On  the  wings  of  faith  ascending, 

May  the  soonest  reach  the  throne. 
And  the  One  who  sees  his  strivings 

May  regard  his  feeble  powers, 
And  the  pearly  gates  may  open 

For  his  soul  as  well  as  ours. 

Let  us  never  judge  the  erring, 

But  in  patience  bear  with  all, 
For  we  may  not  know  the  story 

Of  their  struggle  and  their  fall. 
The  allurements  the}7  encountered 

Might  have  tempted  us  to  stray, 
And  if  saved  by  our  surroundings 

Are  we  perfect  more  than  they? 

To  reclaim  and  raise  the  fallen 

Let  us  labor  to  the  last, 
Ever  asking,  "Are  we  sinless?" 

Ere  a  single  stone  we  cast. 
Then  shall  we  receive  a  blessing 

For  the  love  and  mercy  shown  ; 
If  we  save  a  soul  from  ruin 

It  may  help  to  save  our  own. 


STijomas  jFrancte  Eealjg. 

T.  F.  Leahy  is  a  native  of  Ireland,  born  in  1844  in  the  town  of  Rathmorrell, 
Causeway,  County  of  Kerry.  He  received  a  good  education  in  English  branches 
and  in  the  Latin  language.  He  arrived  in  New  York  city  in  April,  1861,  and  went 
soon  after  to  Hinsdale,  where  he  engaged  in  work  on  a  farm.  Subsequently  he  ob 
tained  a  clerkship  in  Jersey  City,  N.  J.,  in  the  emplov  of  the  York  and  Erie  railroad. 
After  about  two  years  he  resigned  his  position  and  returned  to  Ireland,  where  he 
was  arrested  on  suspicion  of  being  a  Fenian.  Coming  back  to  this  country  he 
went  to  Chicago,  111.,  where  he  obtained  a  clerkship  on  the  People's  Despatch 
Line  railroad.  After  leaving  that  position  he  learned  the  carriage  painting  trade, 
and  has  foljowed  that  business  the  last  ten  years,  and  is  now  proprietor  of  a  shop 
in  Keene. 


THE  MEN  OF  FORMER  DAYS. 

Oh,  for  the  men  of  former  days, 
Who  did  our  starr}'  banner  raise, 
And  bore  it  through  the  smoke  and  blaze 
Of  battle,  blood,  and  slaughter  !  • 


638  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

/  - .  , 

Oh,  for  the  patriotic  few, 
Who,  to  their  loving  country  ti'ue, 
Would  not  be  bound  by  tyrants  who 
Were  miles  beyond  the  water ! 

There's  Washington,  and  La  Fayette, 
Glorious  names  we'll  ne'er  forget, 
And  Jackson  brave,  who  nobly  met 

And  whipped  the  British  foeman. 
There's  Stark,  that  hero  of  great  fame, 
And  many  more  that  I  could  name, 
Who  to  the  front,  like  Allen,  came, 

And  swore  they'd  yield  to  no  man. 

Oh,  for  those  men  who  boldly  said, 
"Of  tyrant  laws  we're  not  afraid, 
And  low  in  death  we  shall  be  laid, 

Or  Columbia  shall  be  free  !" 
Then  Patrick  Henry  raised  his  voice, 
Which  made  the  patriots  rejoice  ; 
For  he  declared  that  for  his  choice, 

He'd  have  death  or  liberty. 

His  voice  it  rang  through  hill  and  dale, 
And  good  and  true  men  did  not  fail 
His  sentiments  to  heed  and  hail 

With  joy  and  exultation. 
With  steady  step  and  fearless  brow 
They  quit  the  workshop  and  the  plough, 
And  showed  the  haught}'  foeman  how 

To  fight,  and  free  a  nation. 

Oh,  for  those  men  who  gallantly 
Fought  for  their  homes  and  liberty  ! 
Their  hearts  were  true  as  hearts  should  be, 

And  fired  with  pure  devotion. 
So  let  their  names  be  e'er  renowned, 
Who  gave  their  lives  and  only  found 
A  grave  in  some  far  distant  ground, 

Mid  battle's  fierce  commotion. 


MOLLY'S  BEAU. 

I'll  seek  the  pleasant  breezes, 
Where  fond  heart  never  freezes, 
And  if  my  Molly  pleases, 
I'll  run  'most  anywhere. 


THOMAS  FRANCIS  LEAHY.  639 

With  feet  the  very  fleetest 
I'll  seek  for  flowers  the  sweetest, 
And  in  a  way  the  neatest 
I'll  place  them  in  her  hair. 

I'll  never  vex  or  tease  her, 
I'll  do  my  best  to  please  her, 
And  lovingly  I'll  squeeze  her 

To  my  fond  heart  with  care. 
And  rather  than  offend  her, 
I'd  lose  my  life  to  render 
All  joy  to  one  so  tender, 

So  loving  and  so  fair. 

Where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
Of  her  I  think  and  ponder, 
And  daily  I  grow  fonder 

Of  Molly,  I  declare. 
For  her  true  heart  is  teeming, 
And  her  bright  eyes  are  beaming 
With  truth  that's  always  gleaming 

Around  her  everywhere. 

If  doomed  from  her  to  sunder, 
Her  bright  eyes  fill  with  wonder, 
I  see  the  clouds  of  thunder, 

And  tears  begin  to  fall. 
Such  showers  I  know  would  shake  me, 
Such  grief  as  that  would  make  me 
To  wish  that  death  should  take  me, 

Than  part  with  her  at  all. 

But  I  shall  never,  never, 
From  m}*  dear  Molly  sever, 
But  always  shall  endeavor, 

Should  fortune  prove  unkind, 
With  heart  as  light  as  feather, 
In  spite  of  wind  and  weather, 
To  walk  through  life  together 

With  an  untroubled  mind. 


THE  ROSE  OF  KEENE. 

Out  of  employment  to  seek  enjoj'ment 
One  daj-  as  I  went,  down  by  Main  Street, 

A  maid  in  splendor,  fair,  young  and  tender, 
Genteel  and  slender,  I  chanced  to  meet. 


C40  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  did  endeavor,  though  I  could  never 

The  name  discover  of  this  nymph  serene  ; 

Nor  information  of  her  location, 

But  her  appellation  is  the  Rose  of  Keene. 

While  I  stood  glancing,  this  maid  entrancing 

Was  then  advancing  toward  the  Square  ; 
And  I,  amazing,  continued  gazing, 

Silently  praising  her  beauty  rare. 
Her  dress  so  neatly,  her  looks  so  sweetl}*, 

Made  her  completely  the  city  queen. 
In  every  feature  this  lovely  creature 

Was  made  by  nature  the  Rose  of  Keene. 

'Tis  not  alarming  if  one  so  charming 

Had  lovers  swarming  'most  all  her  life — 
If  hearts  were  panting,  and  "gents'  were  wanting 

This  maid  enchanting  to  be  a  wife — 
If  such  were  sighing  and  almost  dying, 

Anxiously  trying  to  gain  this  Queen, 
Who's  fair  as  Flora, or  sweet  Aurora, 

Or  famed  Pandora,  the  Grecian  queen. 

Her  eyes  are  brighter  than  stars  at  night  are, 

Her  step  much  lighter  than  the  fleet  fawn  : 
Her  cheeks  are  glowing  like  flowers  blowing, 

With  beauty  flowing  o'er  vale  and  lawn. 
Minerva's  graces  her  form  embraces, 

Like  hers  a  face  is  now  seldom  seen  ; 
So  fascinating  that  hearts  are  breaking, 

And  thousands  aching  for  the  Rose  of  Keene. 

Now  in  conclusion,  'tis  no  delusion 

Nor  vain  effusion  that  I  indite  ; 
For  were  I  gifted  or  yet  uplifted 

Where  learning's  drifted,  'tis  there  I'd  write, 
With  joy  and  pleasure  I'd  praise  this  treasure, 

Nor  stint  the  measure,  in  rhyme  I  ween  ; 
But  with  great  glory  in  song  and  story, 

I'd  praise  till  hoary  the  Rose  of  Keene. 


Eaurens 


Kev.  Henry  L.  Talbot  was  born  in  Kast  Machine,  Maine.  He  received  his  early 
education  at  Washington  Academy  in  his  native  town.  He  Ftudied  three  yeai>  at 
Wilbraliain,  Ma~s..  thru  at  WlllhttOD  seminary,  Kast  Hampioii.  -raduattiii:  t'nnu 
Andover  Theological  Seminary  in  the  class  of  1870,  ami  was  '-ailed  to  settle  a-  pa- 
tor  of  the  Congregational  Church,  in  Durham,  N.  II.,  Nov.,  l?;i,  where  lie  has  .-incc 
resided. 


EENE  Y  LA  UEENS  TALE OT.  641 

"I  SHALL  SEE  HIM  AS  HE  IS." 

"Shall  see  him  as  he  is  !" 
How  thrills  that  thought  the  Christian's  soul, 
Luring  him  onward  to  the  goal 

Of  everlasting  bliss. 

Earth,  with  its  hopes,  away ; 
My  soul  hath  heard  your  charmed  song, 
By  sin's  dark  waters  lingered  long, 

Yet  wearied  of  their  play. 

And  now  its  hope  is  this  : 
By  faith  and  prayer  at  length  to  rise 
To  that  sweet  home  beyond  the  skies, 

And  "see  him  as  he  is  !" 

Hasten,  O  happy  hour  ; 
Nor  longer  sta}T  thy  lingering  wheels, — 
This  promise  to  my  soul  reveals 

The  Christian's  priceless  dower ! 


THE  WAR-CRY. 

Give  me  the  panoply  of  war, 

I'm  ready  for  the  fray  ! 
Gird  up  my  loins,  and  qtiickl}*,  for 

I  will  no  longer  stay. 

I  hear  the  trumpet's  certain  peal, 

It  thunders  in  my  ear, 
M}r  Captain  beckons,  and  I  feel 

No  shame,  no  doubt,  no  fear. 

The  hosts  of  sin  assail  my  Lord, 

His  banners  drag  in  dust, 
My  soul  grows  strong ;  hand  me  the  sword, 

It  shall  no  longer  rust. 

Quick,  or  my  Master's  cause  is  lost ! 

Quick,  or  my  Lord  is  slain  ! 
I  see,  of  sin,  the  myriad  host 

Fast  gathering  on  the  plain. 

Though  faster,  thicker  come  the  foe, 

Stronger  and  braver  I ! 
For  Jesus  I  will  gladly  go 

To  suffer  and  to  die. 


642  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

I  scorn  to  lie  on  flowery  banks, 
I  wish  not  rest  nor  ease  ; 

But,  foremost  in  the  battle  ranks, 
I  seek  my  Lord  to  please. 

Then  give  to  me  my  armor,  Lord, 
I'm  ready  for  the  fray  ; 

Gird  up  my  loins,  I  hear  thy  word, 
And  joyfully  obey. 


LINES. 

Suggested  by  the  trees  after  a  storm. 

I  walked,  to-day,  in  a  silver  grove 
Bedecked  with  shining  crystals  rare  ; 

The  waving  branches  tossed  above 
Their  frosty  diamonds  in  the  air. 

I  gazed  enraptured  on  the  scene, 

And  thought  of  the  world  that  needs  no  sun, 
All  radiant  in  the  dazzling  sheen 

Of  the  perfect  day  so  long  begun. 

And  I  thought,  if  God  on  the  streets  of  earth 
Lavished  profusely  light  and  gem, 

What  would  it  be.  at  the  heavenly  birth, 
In  the  streets  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 


EGBERT,  MY  DEPARTED  BOY. 

He  sleeps  no  more  upon  my  breast, 
The  music  of  whose  gentle  feet 
My  listening  ear  was  wont  to  greet, 

Whose  golden  curls  I  oft  caressed. 

His  bed  is  where  pale  violets  sleep, 
The  narrow  mound  I  may  not  see, 
But  pitjMng  voices  say  to  me, 

"'Tis  where  the  sad-eyed  violets  weep." 

Our  own  stout  hearts  are  filled  with  dread, 
We  shrink  with  terror  and  dismay 
To  walk  the  dark,  mysterious  way 

That  leads  us  to  the  silent  dead. 

How  can  he  tread  the  darksome  way — 
Who  ever  in  the  path  of  life 


LYDIA  FEANCE8  CAMP.  643 


Has  shielded  been  from  every  strife — 
Up  to  the  confines  of  the  da}* ! 

And  should  he  reach  that  better  land, 
Will  he  not  feel  himself  alone, 
As  if  an  uninvited  one, 

And  on  its  threshold  trembling  stand? 

Oh,  who  will  know  the  child  is  there, 
In  that  vast  world  of  dazzling  light? 
Amid  the  hosts  of  seraphs  bright, 

Who'll  see  that  little  form  so  fair? 

Ah,  some  one  from  the  angel-band 
Who  watched  our  angel  here  on  earth, 
And  claimed  with  him  a  kindred  birth, 

Will  greet  him  in  that  better  land, — 

Lead  him,  through  ranks  of  legions  bright, 
To  One  who  trod  life's  pathwa}*  dim, 
And  called  earth's  children  unto  Him 

Now  seated  on  a  throne  of  white  ! 

And  He  will  take  my  little  boy 

And  fold  him  to  His  gentle  breast, 
Till,  sinking  in  that  blissful  rest, 

His  soul  shall  taste  eternal  joy  ! 


&St)ia  ^Frances 

Mrs.  Camp  is  a  native  of  Grafton,  born  in  February,  1845.  She  received  an 
academical  education  at  Canaan  and  Andover.  Teaching  was  her  vocation  previous 
to  her  marriage  in  1877.  She  resides  in  Hanover. 


IN  MEMORY  BRIGHT. 

Oh,  truthful  words,  "In  memory  bright!" 

That  old  square  house,  my  youthful  home, 
I  seem  to  see  through  fancj^'s  flight, 

And  love  it  yet,  though  far  1  roam. 
Those  early  days,  each  early  scene 

Are  still  impressed  upon  my  mind, 
More  clear  than  all  that  lies  between 

The  things  a-near  and  those  behind. 

I  cannot  help  but  feel  regret 

That  having  wandered  here  and  there, 
No  vine  or  fig-tree  have  I  yet 

That  shall  for  me  its  fruitage  bear, 


644  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  to  my  children  seem  a  boon 
As  precious  as  my  mem'ries  dear, 

"Which  cannot  from  me  perish  soon, 
Of  that  loved  spot  I  cherish  here. 

My  school-day  friends !  Oh,  where  are  they 

Whose  names  I  heard  at  call  of  roll? 
Many  of  them  have  passed  away 

To  land  above — home  of  the  soul ! 
How  various  are  the  ways  of  those 

Who  still  upon  life's  pathwaj*  tread  ! 
Joy  comes  to  some,  to  some  come  woes, 

Some  live  in  ease,  some  toil  for  bread. 


<£lara  jfellotoa  i^acfcmttre. 

Mrs.  Macklntlrc  was  born  in  Salisbury,  Jan.  13, 1S4P>,  where  she  spent  her  child 
hood,  leaving  town  at  the  age  of  eleven.  She  passed  her  girlhood  in  Hopkintun, 
where  she  received  her  education.  At  a  very  early  age  she  exhibited  a  genius  for 
poetry  and  sketching.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  she  wrote  a  composition  in  verse 
which  so  surprised  her  teacher  that  she  thought  she  must  have  had  assistance  from 
some  older  and  more  experienced  person.  At  a  later  period  her  picture*  in  crayon, 
water-colors  and  oil  attracted  attention  and  were  deserving  of  merit.  At  the  age 
of  twenty -three  she  was  married  to  Charles  Mackintire  in  Henniker  when1  she  now 
resides.  Her  only  child  (Little  Robbie)  was  born  in  1S70  and  died  in  his  fifth  year. 
For  the  past  ten  years  Mrs.  Mackintire  has  been  a  confirmed  invalid  and  perfectly 
helpless — confined  to  her  chair,  unable  to  lie  down  or  move  her  limbs.  It  was 
while  in  this  condition  that  she  composed  some  of  her  best  pieces  of  poetry- 
many  of  which  have  been  published  in  the  leading  journals  in  this  state  and  Mass 
achusetts  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Wachusett  and  Kearsarge.  Although  she 
has  been  an  invalid  so  many  years,  she  possesses  a  strong  mind  and  clear  intellect, 
and  for  hours  at  a  time  will  converse  with  her  friends  upon  the  leading  topics  of 
the  day  or  the  literature  of  the  age,  in  a  manner  that  shows  she  has  wasted  no  time 
during  her  long  illness  in  storing  her  mind  with  useful  knowledge. 


MUSINGS. 

I  sit  alone  and  dream  to-night, 
Before  the  embers  burning  bright, 

And  in  their  crimson  glow 
Quaint  pictures  there  I  see,  and  trace 
Each  well  remembered  form  and  face 

Of  friends  of  long  ago. 

Without,  the  wildly  rushing  gale 
Goes  by  with  shriek  and  sob  and  wail 

Like  lost  souls  in  despair. 
But  all  within  is  warm  and  bright, 
Save  where  the  flickering  fire-light 

Throws  shadows  here  and  there. 

The}'  step  without  the  picture  fair, 
Their  forms  are  hov'ring  round  my  chair, 
They  whisper  soft  and  low. 


CLAEA  FELLOWS  MACKINTIEE.  645 

Dear  friendly  hands  in  mine  I  grasp, 
Their  loving  arms  around  me  clasp, 
M}T  loved  of  long  ago. 

Sweet  kisses  on  my  lips  are  pressed, 
A  child's  head  nestles  on  my  breast, 

And  one  by  one  I  twine 
The  golden  tresses  tenderly, 
And  hum  a  low,  soft  lullaby, 

As  erst  in  days  of  mine. 

Forgotten  is  the  tempest's  wail, 
My  ear  heeds  not  the  sleet  and  hail 

That  beat  the  window  pane. 
Sweet  music  heard  in  by-gone  hours, 
Faint  perfume  of  forgotten  flowers 

Float  round  me  once  again. 

Again  I  thread  the  olden  maze, 
The  paths  I  trod  in  girlhood's  daj's 

When  life  seemed,  ah !  so  sweet, 
Ere  my  }"oung  life  had  known  a  care, 
Where  earth  seemed  naught  but  good  and  fair, 

And  time  seemed  all  too  fleet. 

And  thus  I  dream  the  hours  away, 
The  fire-light  fades  to  ashes  grey, 

The  blackened  embers  fall. 
Until  the  chiming  of  the  clock, 
Until  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

My  wand'ring  thoughts  recall. 

My  guests  have  flown,  the  house  is  still, 
The  room  is  cheerless,  dark  and  chill, 

The  shadows  seem  to  fall, 
And  close  around  me  fold  on  fold ; 
And  in  my  heart  a  gloom  untold 

Seems  settling  like  a  pall. 

0  tired  heart !  once  filled  with  joy 
And  bliss  which  seemed  without  alloy, 

Thy  visions  bright  have  fled, 
And  naught  remains  to  mark  the  wajr 
But  broken  dreams  and  ashes  grey 

Of  cherished  hopes  now  dead. 

1  rouse  me  from  these  fancies  drear, 
The  storm  is  spent,  the  air  is  clear, 

Sweet  calm  reigns  near  and  far, 


640  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


All  clouds  from  }-onder  skj'  have  gone, 
And  through  the  purple  dusk  of  dawn 
Burns  pale  the  morning  star. 

0  glorious  harbinger  of  day  ! 
Is  there  for  me  of  light  one  ray 

Behind  these  gloomy  shrouds  ? 
Yes,  something  bids  me  not  repine, 
The  star  of  hope  will  brighter  shine 

When  lifted  are  the  clouds. 

When  for  the  summons  home  I  wait, 
Or  pause  before  the  mystic  gate 

That  leads  to  perfect  rest, 
Behind  the  shadows  I  shall  see 
Wiry  life  has  been  so  dark  for  me, 

And  why  God  deemed  it  best. 


AUTUMN. 

Ro3*al,  queenh-,  golden  Autumn  ! 

Thou  art  here,  and  once  again 
Broods  the  drowsy  Indian  summer 

Over  valley,  hill  and  plain. 
On  my  cheek  I  feel  the  soft  wind, 

As  it  gently  steals  along, 
Bringing  near  the  distant  chorus 

Of  the  farmers'  harvest  song. 

Pale  mists  lie  along  the  valley, 

Clothing  it  in  snowy  shrouds, 
Or  beneath  the  morning  sunlight 

Float  away  in  amber  clouds. 
Pearly  smoke  wreaths,  slowly  rising, 

Hang  in  all  the  hazy  air, 
And  thy  gorgeous  gold  and  crimson 

Tint  the  woodlands  everywhere. 

Drowsily  the  late  bee,  humming 

O'er  the  wild  flowers  lying  dead, 
Chants  a  requiem,  sad  and  tender, 

For  the  summer's  sweetness  fled. 
Listen  to  the  plover  calling 

In  the  meadow  brown  and  dry, 
Nearer  sounds  the  partridge  drumming 

In  the  hazel  copse  hard  by. 


MARY  HELEN  BOODEY.  647 

I  can  hear  the  ripe  nuts  falling 

As  the  forest  paths  I  tread, 
And  the  saucy  squirrels  chatter 

In  the  branches  over  head. 
Sharp  and  clear  the  huntsman's  rifle 

Through  the  morning  stillness  breaks, 
Mingled  with  the  hound's  deep  baying 

Echo  after  echo  wakes. 

All  the  flocks  and  herds  are  coming 

From  the  hill-side  and  the  plain  ; 
We  have  harvested  and  garnered 

From  the  fields  their  wealth  of  grain. 
We  have  plucked  the  fruits  grown  mellow 

In  the  suns  of  autumn  time, 
And  the  wine-presses  are  ladened 

With  the  fruitage  of  the  vine. 

All  these  signs  speak,  in  a  language 

That  my  fond  heart  knows  full  well, 
Of  thy  presence,  bounteous  season, 

And  we  own  thy  magic  spell. 
We  have  marked  thy  silent  coming 

By  these  tokens  far  and  near, 
And  with  glad  thanksgiving  greet  thee, 

Regal  queen  of  all  the  year. 


iftarg 


Miss  Boodey,  the  daughter  of  Jacob  P.  and  Louise  M.  D.  Boodey,  was  born  in 
Dover,  December  11, 1847.  She  died  in  Laconia,  April  29, 1880,  two  months  after 
the  death  of  her  father.  Her  first  poem  was  published  in  the  Home  Journal  when 
she  was  fifteen  years  of  age.  In  1871  she  became  assistant  editor  of  Ballou's  Mag 
azine,  and  remained  in  that  capacity  until  compelled  by  ill  health  to  return  to  her 
home  in  Lacouia.  Her  death  was  a  sad  loss  to  her  many  friends.  Her  ability  as  a 
writer,  both  of  prose  and  verse,  was  of  a  high  order.  As  she  wrote  many  poems 
it  would  be  desirable  that  they  be  published  in  a  volume. 


OCTOBER  MUSINGS. 

The  wintry  skies  are  dark  with  clouds 
Portentous  of  the  coming  blast, 

A  mournful  gloom  my  heart  enshrouds, 
The  while  I  muse  upon  the  past. 

Dear  Summer !  thou  art  gone  away, 
Thy  withered  robings  fill  the  air, 

Fit  emblems  of  our  life's  decay, 

Of  all  things  transient,  bright  and  fair. 


648  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy  sister,  Autumn,  reigned  awhile 
In  gorgeous  loveliness  and  pride, 

She  made  us  on  her  beauty  smile, 
While  yet  for  love  of  thee  we  sighed. 

She  wooed  us  with  her  queenly  state, 
Her  golden-tinted  robes  of  red, 

Nor  dreamed  so  sad  should  be  her  fate, 
Clasped  in  the  arms  of  Winter, — dead  ! 

She  gently  kissed,  with  breezes  bland, 
That  half  were  Summer's,  half  her  own, 

The  brightly  blooming,  verdant  land, 
Till  it  became  her  fitting  throne. 

We  bowed  in  admiration  mute 
Before  her  grand  peculiar  charms, 

And  half,  before  her  silent  suit, 

Forgot  sweet  Summer's  twining  arms. 

Still  memory  with  her  gentle  spell 
Would  waft  us  back  to  da}*s  before, 

When  every  green-clad  hill  and  dell 
Was  like  some  fair  enchanted  shore. 

Ah  !  then  her  lavish  beauty  plead 

In  vain,  'gainst  Summer's  mirth  and  bloom, 

We  sadly  longed  for  pleasures  fled — 
The  bird's  sweet  song,  the  flower's  perfume. 

And  now  fair  Autumn  sinks  in  death, 

Her  beauteous  cheek  is  blanched  with  pain, 

She  shrinks  before  the  chilly  breath 
That  heralds  her  destroyer's  reign. 

Our  life,  'tis  said,  is  like  to  this, 
And  summer  is  the  golden  time 

When  love  may  ripen  into  bliss, 

While  joyous  hope-bells  sweetly  chime. 

Alas  !  for  those  whose  life-hopes  fade 
As  autumn  woods  in  winter's  blast, 

For  whom  sweet  summer's  verdant  shade 
Is  but  a  dream  too  bright  to  last. 

But  Hope  points  upward,  smiling  still, 
To  spheres  unscanned  b}"  mortal  e}Te, 

And  whispers,  '•'•there  'tis  summer  still, 

Though  earthly  flowers  may  fade  and  die." 


MAE  Y  HELEN  B  0  ODE  Y.  649 

THREE  LITTLE  BLUE  BONNETS. 

Inscribed  to  Susie,  Louise,  and  Alice  T . 

Three  little  blue  bonnets  are  over  the  border, 
Three  little  blue  bonnets  so  cos}"  and  warm, 

And  oh,  may  our  Father  his  providence  order, 

To  keep  those  who  wear  these  blue  bonnets  from  harm ! 

Three  sweet  little  faces,  all  artless  and  winning, 
Look  out  from  the  depths  of  these  bonnets  of  blue, 

So  fair,  and  so  free  from  all  traces  of  sinning, 
Like  beautiful  blossoms  they  seem  to  our  view. 

Three  pairs  of  bright  eyes,  full  of  beaut}7  and  laughter, 
And  blue  as  the  sky  is,  the  rare  sky  of  June, 

Look  out  on  the  world  with  a  joy  that  hereafter 
Will  sing  to  each  heart  like  some  exquisite  tune. 

Six  fair  little  hands  ever  eager  for  motion, 

And  six  tiny  feet  lightly  tripping  along, 
Three  light  little  hearts  full  of  childish  emotion, 

And  three  little  rosy  mouths  ready  for  song. 

Three  buds  in  earth's  garden,  that  promise  so  sweetbj 
A  joy  for  the  future  wherein  they  shall  bloom  ; 

Oh,  may  that  dear  promise  be  fulfilled  completely, 

May  they  smile  in  their  beauty  to  brighten  earth  s  gloom  ! 

But  what  shall  I  wish  as  the  best  of  all  wishes, 
A  token  of  love  for  these  dear  little  lives  ? 

That  they  may  have  beauty  and  brightness  and  riches, 
And  each  one  become  the  most  cherished  of  wives? 

Ah,  yes  !  may  all  this  be  their  fair  earthly  dower, 
The  blessings  that  life  in  its  fulness  may  bring, 

Sunshine  that  will  brighten  each  day  and  each  hour,  , 
While  joy  in  the  heart  like  a  fountain  may  spring. 

All  womanhood's  blessings  and  womanhood's  crosses 
Lie  hid  in  the  future  that  beameth  so  fair ; 

I  pray  that  its  gains  may  outnumber  its  losses 
To  these  gay  little  hearts  so  unconscious  of  care. 

But  this  were  of  friendship  an  unfinished  token  ; — 
There's  something  far  grander  than  happiness  gives  ; 

For  life  may  grow  dark,  and  its  fond  ties  be  broken, 
But  one  hope  through  sunshine  and  shadow  still  lives. 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 


Oh,  then,  I  will  wish  that,  whatc'er  life  ma}-  bring  them, 
These  three  little  girls  may  be  steadfast  and  true, 

And  three  little  queens  I  will  joyously  sing  them, 
Or  princesses  rare  in  their  bonnets  of  blue. 

Joint  heiresses,  they,  of  the  joys  and  the  sorrows 
That  wait  in  the  path  of  a  true  woman's  feet ; 

May  angels  attend  them,  while  earth  from  them  borrows 
A  glory  the  brightest,  a  bliss  the  most  sweet. 


AFTER  I  DIE. 

What  care  I  then,  if  the  bright  summer  sun, 
With  its  enthroning  sky  of  cloudless  blue, 

And  sweet-voiced  fountain's  softly  falling  spray 
Reflecting  in  its  beaut}*  many  a  hue, 
Shine  not  for  me  ! 

Full  well  I  know  the  earth  will  be  as  green 
In  the  sweet  summer,  and  the  flowers  as  fair, 

The  skies  as  cloudless,  and  the  silvery  sheen 
Of  falling  waters  yet  as  rich  and  rare, 
Though  not  for  me  ! 

I  shall  exult  in  freedom,  like  a  bird 

Long  caged  and  eager  for  an  upward  flight ; 

With  no  regret  my  soul  will  then  be  stirred, 

Though  the  calm  splendor  of  the  jewelled  night, 

Its  starry  jewels  beaming  golden  light, 
Beam  not  for  me  ! 

The  kindly  greeting  of  the  friend  to  friend, 
The  cordial  hand-clasp  and  the  smiling  brow, 

The  gentle  glance  that  love-thoughts  ever  lend, 
And  tender  words,  so  soothing,  soft  and  low  ; — 

These  may  spring  up,  as  violets  by  the  way, 
To  gladden  other  hearts  in  their  brief  day, 
If  not  for  me. 

But  O  !  the  unrecorded,  untold  bliss 

That  may  be  mine  in  yonder  brighter  sphere, 

The  glad  reunion,  and  the  welcome  kiss 
That  I  dare  hope  will  end  my  journey  here, 

Will  be  more  precious  and  more  perfect  joy 
Than  earthly  friendships  with  their  rude  alloy 
Can  give  to  me. 


MAE  Y  HELEN  B 0 ODE T.  651 


Though  earth  ma}'  pass  away  and  be  no  more, 
Her  landscapes  fade  before  my  closing  eye, 

And  those  to  come  forget  that  long  before 
Their  present  time  I  laid  me  down  to  die, 

The  brighter  beauties  of  immortal  day 

May  sweep  each  lingering  thought  of  grief  away — 
And  this  for  me  ! 


"VOICES  OF  HEART  AND  HOME." 

Fain  would  I  sing  a  song  for  home, 

Where  faith  and  trust  abide, 
For  all  the  gentle  joys  that  come 

Borne  on  love's  swelling  tide. 
Sweet  voices  warble  in  the  heart 

A  song  that  never  dies  ; 
E'en  while  the  burning  tear-drops  start, 

Their  melodies  arise, 

And,  like  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells, 

That  speak  to  us  of  praj'er, 
Within  our  hearts  their  music  tells 

Of  all  things  pure  and  fair. 
Go,  if  you  will,  and  bend  the  knee 

At  pleasure's  gilded  shrine  ; 
Kneel  with  her  myriad  worshippers, 

While  youth  and  health  are  thine  ; 

But  as  you  sweep  the  giddy  round 

That  pales  the  blooming  cheek, 
Oh,  ask  your  heart  if  you  have  found 

The  happiness  you  seek. 
Does  not  the  tinsel  and  the  glare 

Soon  fail  to  charm  your  eye, 
And  what  you  deemed  so  strangely  fair 

Fade  into  mockery? 

Ah  yes  !  and  then  you  vainly  weep 

For  tender,  clasping  arms, 
And  a  sweet  voice  to  give  you  sleep, 

And  rest  from  all  alarms. 
There  is  no  joy  like  being  loved, 

To  read  in  truthful  eyes 
The  strong  affection  time  has  proved, 

The  love  that  never  dies  ! 


652  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  if  in  youth  we  cast  aside 

The  stainless  joys  of  home, 
"When  we  have  tested  all  beside, 

We  rarely  wish  to  roam. 
The  clasping  hands,  the  beaming  e}'e9, 

The  accents  soft  and  low 
Are  tokens  of  the  tenderest  ties 

Our  earthly  lives  may  know. 

Then  would  I  sing  a  song  for  home, 

And  feelings  that  impart 
The  fragrance  of  undying  bloom, — 

Wild  roses  of  the  heart ! 
Through  these  we  sometimes  faintly  guess 

The  perfect  joys  of  heaven, 
As  by  the  spring's  pale  loveliness 

A  summer-hope  is  given. 


A  DREAM. 

Alas,  alas  !  the  dreary  winds  are  blowing, 
And  loudly  sobs  and  wails  the  restless  sea ; 

Across  my  sk}r  the  clouds  are  coming,  going, 
That  bring  a  weird  uncertainty  to  me. 

My  heart  beneath  its  weight  of  woe  is  crying, 
My  life's  wide  plain  appeareth  bleak  and  bare ; 

And  ah,  my  flowers,  my  chei'ished  flowers  are  dying, 
Chilled  by  the  wintry  breath  of  dark  despair  ! 

Beneath  the  gloomy  sky  I  wander  lonely, 

x  Grasping  what  once  were  roses  in  my  hand  ; 
Alone,  alone  !  Oh  God  !  to  thee,  thee  only 
I  lift  my  eyes  upon  this  haunted  strand. 

Wilt  thou  forsake  me,  0  mild-eyed  Redeemer ! 

Behold  the  cruel  thorns  have  pierced  my  fdet ! 
Thorns  such  as  thou  didst  bear  without  a  tremor, 

Dear  Christ,  and  for  that  reason  they  are  sweet. 

Upon  the  blast  my  hair  streams  without  decking, 
My  "bonnie  hair,"  he  called  it — well  a-day  ! 

Now  I  may  cry — he  lieth  without  recking, 

Whom  once  my  softest  tone  could  rule  and  sway. 

Wail  on,  ye  winds,  your  mournful  voice  is  music ; 

Bend  down,  ye  skies,  ye  dreary  skies  of  gray ; 
Sob  on,  O  sea,  the}-  but  prize  love  who  lose  it, 

And  see  its  faded  trophies  strew  the  way. 


MABY  HELEN  BOODEY.  653 

But  ah  !  what  glowing  star  above  the  mountains 

Beckons  me  on  through  pathways  lined  with  flowers  ? 

What  voice,  like  rippling  rills  and  gushing  fountains, 
Comes  to  me  as  to  earth  the  vernal  showers? 

Is  it  for  me  the  sky  once  more  grows  rosy, 
While  low,  soft  music  soundeth  from  the  sea  ? 

Is  it  for  me  that  morn  once  more  uncloseth 
Her  golden  gates  of  glory  wide  and  free  ? 

What  hand  hath  crowned  my  pallid  brow  with  roses, 

While  gentle  zephyrs  lightly  lift  my  hair, 
And  song  of  bird  or  hum  of  bee  discloses 

The  wondrous  truth  that  earth  again  is  fair? 

Where  hath  the  black-browed  tempest  fled  that  grieved  me  ? 

Oh,  joy !  the  flowers  are  springing  at  my  feet. 
Gone  are  the  fearful  shadows  that  deceived  rne, 

I  only  dreamed — and  ah,  to  wake  how  sweet ! 


WE  SHALL  MEET  AGAIN. 

We  shall  meet  again  on  a  beautiful  shore, 
Where  the  sorrows  of  life  can  assail  us  no  more, 
Where  the  bliss  of  the  heart  is  unmingled  with  fear, 
And  the  light  of  existence  beams  holy  and  clear. 
We  shall  meet  where  the  zephyrs  forever  are  bland, 
And  the  brow  of  delight  is  by  gentleness  fanned. 
Where  the  soul  will  rejoice  in  a  wonderful  joy, 
And  the  glory  of  life  will  be  free  from  alloy. 
We  shall  meet  face  to  face,  I  shall  see  thee  once  more, 
And  the  smile  in  thine  eyes  will  beam  bright  as  of  yore, 
And  the  love  that  the  strong  hand  of  death  could  not  quell 
To  its  full  tide  of  beauty  and  blessing  will  swell. 
Oh  !  sweet  is  the  thought,  as  it  comes  to  my  soul, 
That  though  life's  stormy  billows  all  roughly  may  roll, 
The  time  will  soon  come  when  my  soul  will  be  free 
From  the  frail  house  that  now  hides  thy  spirit  from  me. 
Will  heaven  shine  the  brighter  for  thee  when  I  come 
Like  a  dove  that  is  weary  and  seeketh  its  home  ? 
Wilt  thou  greet  me  with  words  that  will  fall  on  my  ear 
Like  the  music  of  heaven  in  their  accents  so  dear? 
Shall  I  nestle  to  rest  in  the  arms  of  thy  love, 
And  wilt  thou  rejoice  o'er  thine  earth-weary  dove? 
I  have  wept,  I  have  mourned,  in  my  sorrow  for  thee, 
For  the  light  that  on  earth  I  may  nevermore  see, 


654  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 


And  my  tears  have  been  swift  as  I've  pictured  earth's  strife 

Bereft  of  the  one  who  was  dearer  than  life  ; 

But  ever  when  agon}'  rose  to  its  height, 

And  my  soul  was  enshrouded  in  griefs  wildest  night, 

A  sweet  voice  has  whispered  my  anguish  to  rest, 

And  a  sense  of  thy  presence  in}'  spirit  has  blest ; 

It  comes  like  the  sunshine  that  bursts  through  the  gloom 

When  the  tempest  subsides  and  the  rainbow  can  bloom, 

And  so  great  is  my  joy  at  this  viewless  delight, 

That  hope  spriugeth  up,  and  my  future  grows  bright. 

Ah,  yes  !  we  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore, 

Where  death,  separation  and  grief  are  no  more, 

Where  God  gives  his  children  reward  for  all  pain, — 

In  the  glad  light  of  heaven  I  shall  meet  thee  again. 


Etrtiteou  jfrancte 


Addison  F.  Browne  was  born  at  Union  Town,  N.  .1.,  March  11,  1848.  Hi*  father, 
Kcv.  Addison  Browne,  is  a  native  of  Brentwood,  and  his  mother  was  born  in  Torts. 
mouth.  Until  his  sixteenth  year  he  resided  in  various  New  Hampshire  and  Mas-- 
achusett.-s  towns,  where  his  father,  a  Baptist  clergyman,  preached.  He  then  went 
to  thu  war,  joining  the  thirtieth  Massachusetts  regiment.  After  arriving  home  he 
led  a  wandering  life  lor  several  years,  visiting  different  states,  and  making  long 
voyages  to  distant  countries;  but  finally,  tired  of  such  experiences,  settled  dnwn 
in  Boston,  where  he  has  resided  for  the  past  twelve  years.  He  is  engaged  in  liter 
ary  work  and  is  meeting  with  very  cheering  success".  He  is  on  the  staff  of  "The 
Watchman." 


TWO  SCENES. 

I  stood  upon  a  stage  of  gold, 
Sweet  perfume  filled  the  air ; 

While  robes  with  flashing  crimson  fold, 
And  diamonds  bright  were  there. 

Around  me,  friends  with  noble  look 

Composed,  a  picture  grand, 
And  of  my  bounty  all  partook 

With  joy  and  willing  hand. 

The  place  was  filled  with  brilliant  light ; 

Many  a  lad}*  fair, 
And  many  a  handsome  featured  knight 

With  haughty  looks  was  there. 

But  to  my  door  a  stranger  came, 

Who,  though  of  noble  look, 
Was  clothed  in  rags,  and  sore  and  laine, 

And  by  all  friends  forsook. 

He  asked  but  for  a  crust  of  bread 
For  one  of  home  bereft ; 


ADDIS  ON  FRANCIS  BROWNE. 


And  when  his  simple  want  was  fed 
He  wished  me  well  and  left. 

Upon  that  scene  the  curtain  fell ! 

But  shortly  rose  again, 
And  sure  1  am  no  one  could  tell 

The  form  that  stood  there  then. 

Bright  splendor  now  had  flown  away  : 

I  stood  in  rags,  alone  ! 
"With  not  a  place  my  head  to  lay, 

And  naught  to  call  my  own. 

For  with  my  fair  prosperity 

My  friends  had  gone  also, 
And  in  complete  adversity 

I  felt  forebodings  grow. 

But,  to  my  cheerless,  gloom}-  night, 

A  noble  friend  there  came, 
Whose  eye  was  bright  with  manly  light, 

I  looked — it  was  the  same  ! 

'Twas  he  to  whom  in  wealth  and  pride 

A  crust  of  bread  1  gave, 
Who,  now  in  wealth,  came  to  my  side 

From  sorrow  me  to  save. 


MOONLIGHT  IN  SEPTEMBER. 

The  glory  of  day  has  flown  to  the  west, 

And  the  twilight  fades  to  a  purple  ray, 
As  the  orange  light  on  yon  mountain's  crest, 

Before  the  night  shade,  passes  up  and  away. 
Such  is  the  view  as  I  walk  by  the  side 
Of  Merrimack's  fair  and  peaceful  tide, 
Near  one  of  those  highlands,  rugged  and  great, 
So  often  found  in  the  old  Granite  State. 

Soon,  from  yon  east,  the  full  harvest  moon 

O'er  mountain  and  plain,  and  rivulet  free, 
Sheds  the  pure  white  glow  of  reflected  noon  ; 
And  the  woodland  dim,  like  a  shadowy  sea 
Stretching  awa}-  to  the  distant  gloom, 
Attracts  the  eye  by  each  tossing  plume, 
Through  whose  leafy  harp  the  night  winds  blow 
With  a  chanting  sound  of  melody  low. 


(J56  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  grand  old  mountain,  so  massive  and  high, 

With  lofty  summit  and  steep  rock}-  side, 
All  clearly  defined  stands  out  from  the  sky ; 

While  the  glittering  spraj'  of  a  streamlet's  tide, 
Dashing  along  in  the  moonlight's  glow, 
Swiftly  descends  to  the  valley  below, 
And  journeys  toward  the  central  stream 
That  with  shining  jewels  is  all  agleam. 

How  soothingly  calm  is  this  soft  fair  light ! 

Its  milder  beauty  so  changes  the  scene, 
That  valley  and  plain  and  sk_y  seeking  height 

Appear  as  the  parts  of  a  picture  serene  ; 
And  far  away  through  pasture  and  dell 
My  step  is  guided  by  a  mystic  spell. 
Whose  potent  power — an  unseen  will — 
Seems  all  my  spirit  with  rapture  to  thrill. 


ONE  LOOK. 

While  we  were  hurrying  through  a  crowded  street, 

The  human  surges  brought  us  face  to  face, 
And  it  has  never  been  my  lot  to  meet 

With  one  revealing  more  of  native  grace  ; 
As  like  a  flash,  that  language  of  the  heart 

Which  binds  long  legends  in  a  single  book 
Appeared,  in  guise  secure  from  carnal  art. 

And  though  our  passing  but  a  moment  took, 
That  holy  glance  and  half  completed  smile, 

Which  came  to  me  while  eye  was  fixed  on  eye, 
Invoked  a  spirit  thrill,  whose  noble  style 

Reveals  a  sweetness  that  can  never  die. 
And  as  with  me,  so  it  must  be  with  her, 
For  mutual  causes  like  results  confer ! 


SLEEP. 

When  far  intensified,  abnormal  sight, 

Through  hours  of  awful  length  has  pierced  the  gloom, 

Till  telescopic  fancy  takes  command 

Of  all  within  my  shadow-altered  rtom, 

And  weaves  a  wild  array  of  angry  shapes, 

Whose  labors  centre  in  a  mission  sad, 

To  chain  my  thought  on  mem'ry's  most  unpleasant  page. 

Which  Hope  had  told  me,  in  the  cavern  graves  of  time 


ADDI80N  FEANCI8  BE 0  WNE.  657 

Would  sink  beyond  all  resurrection  chance, 

And  never  break  the  constant  rising  ground 

Which  later  acts  have  thrown  upon  its  rest, 

The  near  approach  of  Goddess  Sleep  is  fraught 

With  tyrant  fear,  that  burns  in  every  nerve, 

For  then  her  features  have  an  icy  glare 

That  speaks  a  semblance  of  her  sister  Death, 

And  to  her  victims  seems  to  prophesy — 

"Your  coming  slumber  will  be  long  and  deep  ! 

Eyes  that  are  closing  now  will  close  fore'er ! 

While  thought  and  sense  will  change  into  a  frozen  dream, 

The  latest  mortal  footmark  of  a  passing  soul." 

Far  better — when  a  life  is  so  disturbed 

By  overplus  of  unrelenting  care, 

Or  with  the  burden  of  that  sick'ning  fruit 

Which  is  the  certain  growth  from  criminal  seeds, 

That  sleep  cannot  be  wooed  in  natural  ways, 

And  only  comes,  when  painful  lassitude  invites, 

To  give  the  frenzied  brain,  instead  of  needed  rest, 

A  clouded  space  of  semi-conscious  work 

On  doleful  pictures  from  the  world  of  dreams — 

To  let  our  fancies  wander  as  they  will, 

And  wait  relief  from  morning's  subtile  balm, 

Instead  of  seeking  sleep. 

For  warning  dark, 

At  such  a  time  is  often  warning  true  ! 
When  happy  days  of  fair  advancing  work 
Have  left  their  records  in  the  book  of  time, 
And  evening  hours  have  passed  with  such  a  flow 
Of  social  friendship's  brightly  ordered  stream, 
Or  young  affection's  spring  of  prospect  sweet, 
That  we  must  surely  win  a  profit  large  ; 
As  on  its  welcome  pillow  lies  each  head, 
And  gentle  weariness  has  only  come 
That  we  may  know  the  potency  of  rest ; 
Then,  as  my  nightly  visitor  descends 
To  slowly  move  her  care-suspending  wand 
Across  the  key-board  of  my  tired  soul, 
And  hushes  every  note  whose  stirring  voice 
Contributes  to  the  varied  harmony 
Of  wakeful  nature's  rapid  flowing  song, 
I  can  receive  her  as  a  loving  friend, 
And  in  her  quiet  arms  sink  softly  down 
With  every  sense  attuned  to  anthems  low, 
Whose  melody,  of  steady  halcyon  notes, 
Is  but  the  golden  throbbing  of  her  heart, 


G58  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  undulates  upon  my  raptured  ear, 

As  over  blissful  seas  I  float  away 

Into  a  mighty  trance  of  dreamless  calm. 


Etrtrelatoe  <£.  Bennett. 


Mrs.  Bennett  was  born  in  "Warner,  Nov.,  1848.  She  is  the  daughter  of  Oilman 
C.  and  Nancy  (Badger)  George.  She  was  for  several  years  a  teacher  in  the  Man 
chester  High  School.  In  October,  1877,  she  was  married  to  Mayor  Charles  H.  Ben 
nett,  of  Lemars,  Iowa,  now  of  Pipestone  City,  Minnesota.  In  1881  a  small  volume 
of  her  poems  was  issued  by  H.  S.  Smith  &  Co.  of  Lemas. 


THE  NEW-BORN  YEAR. 

Faintly  shines  the  moon's  fair  crescent, 

Slowly  setting  in  the  west ; 
And  the  gathering,  deepening  darkness, 

Shining  stars  in  beauty  crest. 

Sadly  now  the  shadows  lengthen, 
And  enfold  the  shivering  earth, 

For  to-night  the  old  year  dieth, 
And  the  new  year  has  its  birth. 

'Tis  a  watch-night  through  the  nation  ; 

Prayerful  hearts  in  silence  wait, 
Watching  the  fast  fleeting  moments, 

Watching  till  the  hour  grows  late. 

And  the  silver-voiced  Muezzin, 
From  his  battlement  on  High, 

Cries,  "'Tis  twelve,  the  old  year  dieth, 
And  the  new  is  drawing  nigh." 

Spreading  forth  his  new-fledged  pinions 

At  Aurora's  rosy  dawn, 
Over  isles  and  lakes  and  ocean 

Flies  the  happy  year,  new-born. 

From  the  hill-side  and  the  mountain, 
From  the  valley  and  the  plain, 

Onward  spreads  the  joyful  greeting, 
"Happy  New  Year  once  again." 

List :  the  broad  Atlantic  surges 
Roll  it  westward  o'er  the  strand, 

And  the  soft  Pacific  murmurs 
Send  it  eastward  o'er  the  land. 


JOHN  ADAMS  BELLOWS.  659 

Louder,  clearer  grows  the  greeting, 

Many  tongues  repeat  the  call, 
And  in  joyful  chorus  echo, 

"Happy  New  Year  unto  all." 


new  }*ear  !  bright  thy  dawning  ! 

Be  it  like  an  opening  bud  :  — 
Ripening  into  fairer  flowers, 
Bringing  to  us  happier  hours, 

Ere  thou  pass  beyond  the  flood. 


Etrams 

Rev.  John  A.  Bellows,  a  son  of  Henry  A.  and  Catherine  Bellows,  was  born  in 
Littleton,  May  27, 1848.  He  entered  Dartmouth  College  in  1866,  and  graduated  in 
1870,  with  a  poem  on  Commencement  Day,  and  an  ode  on  Class  Day.  He  engaged 
in  literary  work  on  the  Liberal  Christian  newspaper,  of  New  York  city,  until  1S76. 
He  was  ordained  and  installed  as  minister  of  the  First  Unitarian  Society  of  Water- 
ville,  Maine,  June  6, 1878.  He  married  Isabel  Francis,  of  Tarrytown,  N.  Y.,  Nov 
ember  6,  1878. 


THE  POET. 

No  golden  lyre  his  hand  has  swept 
To  please  some  high-born  lady's  ear, 

But  mid  wild  nature's  solitudes 

He  sang,  nor  wept  though  none  might  hear. 

He  wrote  not  for  the  bustling  throng, 

For  battle  field  or  busy  mart, 
'Neath  spreading  trees  and  God's  blue  sky 

He  sang  the  voices  of  his  heart. 

Great  sorrow  knew  he  ; — when  was  song 
E'er  ripe  and  perfect,  but,  unseen, 

An  angel  in  disguise  had  sown 

Some  bitter  thorn  the  flowers  between  ? 

He  lived  a  quiet  life  ;  unheard 

The  hurrying  throng  each  da}"  passed  by  ; 
He  had  sore  conflicts,  yet  passed  through 

The  fire,  nor  flinched,  with  heaven-lit  eye. 

Is  it  decreed  that  poets  learn 

By  toil  and  anguish,  suffering  long, 

By  bitter  word  and  sneer  of  men, 
The  lessons  that  they  teach  in  song? 

They  blamed  him  that  no  deeper  thought 
Did  haunt  his  lines  of  poesy 


660  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIBE. 

Than  that  which  sings  in  bending  leaves, 
Or  sparkles  on  the  rippling  sea. 

Better  they  blamed  "the  birds  that  sang 
God's  lyrics  through  June's  golden  days," 

Better  the  laughing  brook,  than  one 
Who  sang,  yet  wept  to  wear  the  bays. 

He  died,  as  all  men  must,  and  then 
Each  lent  his  word  of  blame  or  praise  : 

"This  poet  struck  some  few  notes  well," 
They  said,  then  went  their  several  ways. 

But  o'er  his  grave  the  wood-birds  sing 
Their  wildest  notes  of  melody, 

And  still  above  him,  loved  so  well, 
Hovers  the  cloudless,  summer  sky. 

And  freed  from  earthly  care^and  loss, 
From  sore  defeat  or  victory  won, 

Through  worlds  of  space,  from  star  to  star, 
His  poet-soul  went  singing  on. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

She  sits  in  the  low,  old-fashioned  room, 

Two  white  hands  are  crossed  on  her  knee, 
The  clock  is  ticking  on  in  the  gloom, 

Marking  the  moments,  steadily. 
While  the  red  glow  of  the  failing  fire 

Flashes  full  in  her  pure,  j'oung  face  ; 
I  wonder  if  she  is  unaware 

Of  lips'  expression,  and  e3res'  sweet  grace  ! 
Or  does  she  guess,  has  some  one  told, — 

Surely  she  loves,  I  know  not  whom, — 
That  her  hair  is  like  to  fine-spun  gold, 

Her  cheeks  to  the  pink  of  the  apple-bloom  ? 
What  sweet  fancies  have  thronged  her  mind, 

Thoughts  of  happier  days  long  past? 
Hears  she  the  roar  of  the  dreary  wind, 

The  branches  creaking  at  eveiy  blast? 
Knows  she  aught  of  the  falling  rain, 

Of  the  pitiless,  merciless,  driving  sleet? 
Look  !  she  has  pressed  her  face  to  the  pane, 

Gazing  out  on  the  long,  dark  street. 


SYLVIA  A.  MOSS.  661 


Now  she  has  clasped  her  fair,  white  hands : 
"Father  in  Heaven,  I  look  unto  thee, 

Thou  who  rulest  on  wave  and  land  ; 

'Tis  a  terrible  night  for  my  lover  at  sea  !" 

Many  a  year  has  gone  to  its  grave, 

Years  with  sorrow  and  loss  in  their  track, 
Since  her  fond  prayer  went  over  the  wave 

For  one  who  might  never  again  come  back. 
Still  she  sits  in  the  darkening  room, 

Her  poor,  thin  hands  at  rest  on  her  knee, 
The  old  clock  ticking  still  in  the  gloom, 

Marking  the  moments  steadily. 
Ah !  but  the  face  is  so  old  and  wan, 

And  the  wond'rous  hair  that  her  lover  called  gold, 
Years  ago  in  the  days  long  gone, 

Has  silver  threads  ;  she  is  growing  old. 
Still  when  she  hears  the  wintry  blast 

Singing  its  dirge  in  each  leafless  tree, 
Says  she  softly,  while  tears  drop  fast, 

u'Tis  a  terrible  night  for  those  at  sea !" 


Mrs.  Moss,  a  daughter  of  Abner  and  Sarah  (Jenness)  Harriman,  was  born  in 
Bradford,  Vt.,  in  1848.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  years  she  went  with  her  father's 
family  to  Stratford.  When  sixteen  years  of  age  she  began  teaching  school  and 
followed  that  vocation  during  six  years.  In  1872  she  was  married  to  Edward  Moss. 
They  reside  in  Worcester,  Mass. 


HOW  HAPPY. 

How  happy  must  he  be  who  falls  asleep, 

His  hands  full  of  fame's  roses  freshly  blown  ; 

For  him  the  world  takes  ample  time  to  weep, 
His  few  defects,  as  yet,  are  quite  unknown. 

Those  little  minds  that  would  the  great  undo 
Not  yet  their  undermining  have  begun  ; 

All  speak  in  praise  of  what  he  wished  to  do, 
All  sorrow  that  he  left  so  much  undone. 

Blest  must  he  be  who  gently  falls  asleep 
Ere  any  worldly  blast  withers  fame's  roses, 

Whatever  comes  he  will  have  had  his  day, 
A  day  whose  sunlight  only  good  discloses. 


G62  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Itfartlett 

Mrs.  Seymour,  a  daughter  of  the  late  Stephen  Bartlett  of  Warner,  was  horn  in 
that  town,  June  29,  1848.  She  was  educated  at  Contooeook  Academy,  and  after 
wards  at  New  London  Academy,  completing  at  New  London  a  four  years'  classical 
course,  graduating  iu  the  class  of  1873.  In  the  autumn  of  that  year  she  became 
principal  of  the  High  School  of  Littleton,  Mass.,  and,  in  the  following  year,  of  the 
Uirl'u  High  School  in  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  In  which  position  she  taught  the  lan 
guages  in  the  boys'  department  of  the  school.  Private  study  and  instruction  in 
languages  was  pursued  while  teaching  in  New  Jersey,  until  her  position  there  was 
resigned  and  she  entered  upon  the  study  of  the  German  language  in  Washington, 
D.  C.  In  1879  she  went  as  teacher  to  Georgetown,  Colorado,  and  in  1881  returned 
to  be  married  at  the  old  homestead  in  Warner,  to  Robert  G.  Seymour,  of  Seymour, 
111.,  who  is  at  present  a  grain  merchant  in  Georgetown,  Colorado,  where  they  reside. 


OCTOBER. 

Oh,  sweet  October  day,  "  Leaves  from  the  tall  old  trees, 

Jewel  in  Autumn's  crown !  Scarlet  and  brown  and  gold, 

How  shall  I  sing  my  la}'  As  the}' float  on  the  mystic  breeze, 

While  the  merry  leaves  float  A  deeper  menu  ing  hold 

down  .  Than  those  the  same  breeze 

And  lie  in  heaps  at  my  feet,  scattered 

Golden  and  red  and  brown?  In  the  Sybil's  cave  of  old. 

How  shall  I  weave  some  part 

Of  thy  dreamy,  restful  hours  For  all  December's  story, 

Into  this  song  of  my  heart,  And  all  of  April's  grief 

As  one  of  thy  parting  dowers  And  August's  crowning  glory 

That  shall  come  to  me  again  Of  ripened  grain  and  sheaf, 

When  winter  has  killed  the  flow-  Are  o'er  and  o'er  repeated 

ers  ?  In  the  gold  and  crimson  leaf. 

Soft,  on  the  distant  hills 

Lies  a  tender,  purple  mist,          Bathed  in  a  yellow  light, 

And  a  murmured  melody  fills     The  western  hills  lie  dim. 

The  air,  as  I  idly  list  As  the  sun  sinks  down  from  sight 

On  the  shore,  where  the  pebbles  Behind  their  purple  rim, 

and  waves  [ed.  And  a  stillness,  almost  vocal, 

Have  hurriedly  clasped  and  kiss-  Falls  like  a  vesper  hymn. 


A  MEASURE. 

How  shall  I  estimate  the  love 

That  fills  my  soul  for  thee  ? 
By  countless  stars,  by  light  of  sun, 

By  depth  of  boundless  sea? 

Stars  fade  by  day,  suns  sink  at  night, 

And  treacherous  is  the  sea, 
By  Love's  own  height  and  breadth  and  depth 

I'll  bound  my  love  for  thee  ! 


ALFRED  WILLIAM  SARGENT.    J  663 

A  HOME  PICTURE. 

A  hill-side,  bright  with  golden-rod 
And  sweet  wild  asters'  nodding  flowers ; 
A  sunset  sky,  whose  rosy  dyes 
An  idle  girl  with  dream}'  eyes 
Is  watching,  while  the  winged  hours 
Bear  home  another  day  to  God. 
The  late  birds  flit  along  the  hill, 
Or  wheel  in  circles  through  the  air ; 
The  mountain  line  grows  sharp  and  clear 
As  gathering  twilight  brings  it  near, 
And  sounds  of  noonday's  work  and  care 
Are  hushed,  and  in  the  skies 
The  sickle  of  the  harvest  moon 
Gleans  mid  the  stars,  and  all  too  soon 
The  day's  bright  beauty  dies  ! 


Eifretr  OTilliam  Sargent, 

A.  W.  Sargent  was  horn  in  Warner,  May  31, 1849.  He  was  the  only  son  of  Eben- 
ezer  W.  and  Ruth  W.  Sargent.  His  father  died  when  he  was  in  his  fourteenth  year, 
leaving  to  him  the  care  of  a  farm.  Possessing  a  quick  intellect  and  retentive  mem 
ory,  he  acquired  a  large  amount  of  general  information,  and  his  poetic  genius 
seemed  to  be  the  result  of  reading  some  of  the  great  poets.  He  died  in  his  native 
town,  Feb.  23, 1882. 


WISDOM  AND  POWER  DIVINE. 

How  wondrous  are  thy  works  O  Lord  of  hosts 
Omnipotent ;  how  manifold  and  vast ! 
Which  as  a  cloud  of  witnesses  attest 
Thy  power  divine,  and  wisdom  infinite 
Displayed  in  their  creation.     In  the  dawn 
Of  time's  primeval  morning  thou  didst  call 
Chaos  from  nothing,  and  the  warring  waste 
Of  crude  incipient  elements  prepare  ; 
And  mould  and  fashion  from  the  whirling  mass 
The  glittering  hosts  of  heaven,  resplendent  suns 
And  worlds  which  by  their  revolutions  mark 
The  onward  march  of  ages.     By  thy  skill 
And  power  divine,  those  bright  celestial  spheres 
Unnumbered,  numberless,  harmoniously 
Pursue  their  ceaseless  courses,  unsustained 
By  visible  upholding.     At  thy  word 
They  were,  and  are,  and  to  proclaim  thy  power 
Forever  shall  endure.     This  lower  world 
Which  as  a  little  atom  floats  in  space 


OG4  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Around  her  central  star,  yet  speaks  of  thee, 

Her  maker,  and  in  concert  with  the  skies 

Joins  the  celestial  song.     Thou  didst  collect 

Her  substances.     Thy  sovereign  will  divine 

Present  forever  in  each  secret  part 

Of  all  thy  vast  sensorium,  nature's  realm, 

Here  wrought  thy  pleasure.     From  her  crucible 

The  tested  elements  flowed  forth  in  streams 

Of  molten  fury.     Thou  didst  then  combine 

Those  which  thou  wouldst  combine,  and  separate 

Repelling  parts.     Rolling  in  frigid  space 

The  forming  planet  hardened  by  degrees, 

While  ages  dawned  and  fled.     Thine  eye  divine 

Incessant  watched  the  changes  which  thy  skill 

And  power  performed.     By  world-convulsing  throes, 

Thy  viewless  movements,  were  the  hills  upreared, 

And  lofty  mountain  ranges.     By  the  power 

Of  liquid  torrents  and  of  ceaseless  -waves, 

Thy  tireless  agents,  were  the  rocks  reduced 

To  plant-sustaining  soils.     Thou  didst  create 

Earth's  first  primeval  forests,  and  direct 

Their  giant  growth.     Subservient  to  thy  will 

The  tempests  rose,  and  air  and  ocean  warred 

With  vegetation  :  like  a  serried  host 

O'erthrown  in  battle,  mighty  forests  fell, 

And,  tempest-driven,  in  caverns  vast  were  massed 

In  bulk  like  buried  mountains.     At  thy  word 

The  power  of  nature  metamorphosed  them ; 

While  other  forests  on  the  earth  restored 

Luxuriant  grew.     With  living  creatures  strange 

The  seas  were  peopled,  and  upon  the  earth 

Unnumbered  species  lived,  and  died,  and  left 

Their  several  links  in  that  great  chain  which  binds 

The  present  with  the  past.     Each  animal 

Which  roamed  in  those  wild  solitudes,  or  flew 

Above  the  earth,  or  dwelt  within  the  deep, 

Proclaimed  thy  skill  and  wisdom,  to  the  hosts 

Of  watching  seraphim.     Each  chaos  wild 

Which  swept  the  planet  desolate  and  bare 

Thou  didst  commission  to  prepare  the  way 

For  a  renewed  creation.     Step  by  step 

The  mighty  work  progressed.     No  error  marred 

Its  plan  or  execution.     Thou  didst  view 

The  end  from  the  beginning ;  in  thine  eye. 

Each  part  minute  of  all  this  world  appeared 

Present  before  thee,  ere  thou  didst  command 


HOE  ACE  B.  BAKER.  665 

Matter  to  be.     Thy  wisdom  infinite, 

And  skill  divine  with  high  omnipotence 

Harmonious  wrought,  and  ail  the  work  was  good. 

Within  the  moulded  dust  thou  didst  implant 

Thine  image  ;  by  thy  breath  inspiring  life 

Into  the  silent  clay.     Creative  skill,         .  ' 

Unlimited,  uniting  with  the  dust 

Perception,  intellect,  intelligence, 

Reason,  accountabilit}',  prepared 

On  earth  the  image  of  the  Deity, 

The  moral  likeness  of  the  infinite, 

Eternal  God,  to  be  the  sovereign  head 

Of  his  creation  ;  male  and  female  formed, 

Each  to  the  other  complementary, 

On  earth  to  dwell  tog'ether,  president 

O'er  all  this  earthly  mansion,  to  adore 

The  great  Creator,  whose  omnipotence 

Of  skill  divine,  of  wisdom,  and  of  love, 

The  earth  and  heavens  declare,  whose  praises  rise 

Like  incense  from  the  lips  of  seraphim 

Standing  in  glory  round  about  his  throne. 


13.  Itfafcer. 


H.  B.  Baker  resides  in  Nashua,  and  is  a  writer  of  prose  and  verse  for  the  Maine 
Former,  and  other  papers  in  Maine. 


WINTER. 

Far  down  below  the  drifted  snow 
The  germs  of  summer's  beaut}-  lie  ; 

No  leaping  rills  among  the  hills, 

No  wild  birds  through  the  green  boughs  fly. 

No  toiling  bee  on  flower  we  see, 

No  hum  of  insects  do  we  hear ; 
No  singing  birds,  no  grazing  herds 

On  mead  or  hill-side  now  appear. 

No  shady  bower,  no  fragrant  flower, 

But  through  the  leafless  branch  o'erhead, 

Cold  from  the  north  the  wind  moans  forth, 
A  seeming  requiem  for  the  dead. 

The  cheerless  look  of  lake  and  brook, 

Fast  fettered  with  an  ic}'  chain, 
The  rushing  blast,  the  sky  o'ercast 

Proclaim  old  winter's  tyrant  reign. 


GfiG  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Mrs.  Andrews,  whose  name  previous  to  marriage  was  Follansbee,  is  a  native  of 
Manchester.  Her  parents  removed  to  Massachusetts  when  she  was  a  child.  They 
afterwards  went  South,  and  when  the  war  of  the  Rebellion  began  they  went 
West.  Her  father  entered  the  army,  and  after  serving1  the  whole  five  years  of  the 
war,  died  at  last  in  a  southern  prison.  In  1870  she  became  the  wife  01  George  G. 
Andrews  of  Hudson. 


EVENING. 

Slow  sinks  the  sun  behind  the  purple  hills, 
The  crickets'  chirp  the  quiet  evening  fills  ; 
The  air  is  hazy  with  a  languor  sweet, 
The  very  zeplryrs  move  with  noiseless  feet ! 
Great  waves  of  crimson  roll  from  out  the  west 
And  break  upon  the  gray,  each  glitt'ring  crest 
The  sun's  last  rays  have  burnished  into  gold. 
Day's  dying  glory — new,  and  yet  so  old  ! 

Slowly  the  sunset  splendor  fades  away  ; 
One  golden  star  shines  out  upon  the  gray, 
The  new  moon's  silver  crescent  just  below, 
Across  which  fleecy  cloudlets  come  and  go. 
A  perfumed  breeze  comes  dancing  from  the  south, 
And  whispers  to  the  leaves,  with  dainty  mouth, 
Of  shaded  rills  ;  of  forests  cool  and  green 
Where  mosses  grow  with  brimming  brooks  between. 
The  distant  whip-poor-will  begins  his  song — 
"Whose  melancholy  notes  to  night  belong." 
Nearer,  he  wings  his  flight  with  circling  sweep, 
His  perch  at  last — in  shadow  cool  and  deep — 
A  clump  of  roses  by  the  garden  walk, 
Or  by  the  royal  lilies'  drooping  stalk. 
"Whip-po-will !  cluck!  whip-po-will,  whip-po-will !" 
He  sings  ;  till  in  your  dreams  you  hear  it  still. 


AT  REST. 

Sleep,  darling,  sleep ! 

The  purple  harebells  swing  like  censers  to  and  fro ; 
The  long  grass  whispers  to  the  roses  white  as  snow, 
Blooming  upon  the  lowly  bed 
That  pillows  soft  thy  sunny  head. 
Sleep,  darling,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  darling,  sleep ! 

The  perfumed  south-wind  sighs  among  the  cypress-trees, 
Rocked  on  the  lily-cups  drowsily  hum  the  bees  ; 


EDWARD  JOHN  COL  CORD.  C67 

Softly,  sweetly,  sleepily  sing 
The  bonny  birds,  with  quiet  wing — 
Sleep,  darling,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  darling,  sleep ! 

The  shadows  lengthen,  and  the  hylas  sings  his  song ; 
The  hidden  cricket  chirps,  and  beats  her  tiny  gong. 
The  dreamy,  drowsy  zephyrs  pass 
Gently  over  the  fragrant  grass. 
Sleep,  darling,  sleep ! 


EVENTIDE. 

I  have  tucked  our  darling  up  snugly, 
And  kissed  her  a  tender  good  night, 

While  heavy-fringed  lashes  are  drooping 
And  hiding  her  fair  eyes  from  sight. 

And  now  I  sit  here  in  the  lamplight, 
With  a  basket  of  stockings  to  darn  ; 

And  topmost  of  all  lies  one  small  pair 
That  are  knitted  of  bright  scarlet  j-arn. 

Oh  yes,  I  find  holes  here  in  plent}' — 

They  cover  feet  restless  and  quick  ; 
Toes  that  will  find  ways  to  creep  out 

Through  stocking,  though  ever  so  thick. 

In  and  out  as  I  weave  my  large  needle, 

I  think  of  the  time  that  will  come, 
When  these  little  feet  will  be  straying 

From  the  paths  of  their  quiet  home. 

When  they  take  their  first  step  in  life's  journey, 
For  the  right  will  they  firmly  stand  ? 

Will  the\7  walk  ever  onward  and  upward, 
Ever  on  to  the  blest  Beulah-land? 

Our  Father,  thou  only  canst  answer, 

Oh,  point  by  thy  Spirit  the  way 
That  will  lead  her  through  life's  thorns  and  pitfalls 

To  the  regions  of  unending  day. 


Joljn  OTolcortr. 


TCev.  E.  J.  Colcord  was  born  in  Parsonsfleld,  Maine,  July  28,  1849.  He  fitted  for 
college  i)t  the  academy  in  Etlingham,  N.  H.,  and  graduated  at  Colby  University  in 
1^7").  After  teaching  school  two  years  in  Beverly,  Mass.,  he  became  a  student  in 
Newton  Theological  Seminary,  and  alter  graduation  was  settled  as  pastor  of  the 
Baptist  Church  in  Amherst. 


GO 8  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

ACTION. 

Oft  have  I  felt  within  the  ardent  fire 

And  passive  thrill  of  longing  stir  the  soul ; 

Oft  great  ambition  fills  my  being's  whole 
With  wild  unrest  and  dreams  of  something  higher. 
Yet  what  avails  this  flame  of  fond  desire  ? 

Cheated  by  hope  I  miss  the  illusive  goal, 

Or  else  am  sta3-ed  by  power  beyond  control, — 
I  grasp  at  phantoms  when  I  would  aspire. 
Then  shall  I  deem  that  all  this  inward  pain 

Of  baffled  aims  is  mockery  at  best, 
And  cease  to  wish  because  I  cannot  gain  ? 

Ah,  no !  my  heart  can  never  idhy  rest : 
Though  effort  dies  and  ardor  glows  in  vain, 

In  noble  toil  alone  is  living  blest. 


FAREWELL. 

The  dying  Greek  beheld  with  cheerful  eye 

Death's  twilight  fall ;  life's  glories  pass  away  : 

He  saw  in  fancy  break  another  day 
Whose  constant  sun  illumed  a  nightless  sky. 
What  though  with  life  all  mortal  splendors  fly  ? 

Beyond  the  north-wind's  blast  immortal  lay 

His  sunlit  home  untouched  by  sad  decaj-, — 
The  blessed  world  where  heroes  never  die. 
So  like  the  Greek,  dear  friend,  we  too  have  known 

The  shade  of  death  when  to  the  mingling  dust 
Of  centuries  these  storied  3Tears  have  flown. 

His  hope  is  ours :  beyond  the  moth  and  rust 
That  mar  this  fleeting  life  the  soul  shall  own 

A  mansion  deathless  as  the  Christian's  trust. 


dfranfc  $%.  OTarlton. 


Frank  II.  Carlton  is  a  son  of  Henry  G.  Carlton,  of  Newport.  He  was  born  in  that 
town,  Oct.  8,1849.  He  learned  the  trade  of  printer  in  the  office  of  the  J/V///N  "»</ 
Spectator.  After  fitting  for  college  at  Kimball  Union  Academy,  Meriden,  he  enter- 
t'd  Dartmouth  College  and  was  graduated  in  187-2.  He  was  lor  a  while  on  the  edito 
rial  staff  of  the  1'nion  Democrat,  Manchester.  He  then  went  to  Minnesota  and  was 
city  editor  of  the  St.  Paul  J're.ts.  In  1874  he  entered  the  law  office  of  Governor  ( 
K.  Davis,  of  that  city,  and  the  next  year  was  made  Clerk  of  the  Court,  which  jilai-c 
he  held  for  nearly  four  years,  having  in  the  meantime  been  admitted  to  the  bar.  In 
1879,  and  during  the  next  year,  ho  travelled  in  Kurope.  On  his  return  he  became 
secretary  to  Governor  John  L.  Pillsbury.  He  is  now  practising  law  in  Minneapolis. 


ISABEL  C.  GREENE.  fi69 


THE  DIVINE  PLAN. 

On  every  side  God's  hand  is  seen  ; 
The  sky  so  blue,  the  earth  so  green, 
Whatever  strikes  the  eye  of  man 
Is  evidence  of  one  great  plan. 

Look  where  we  will,  on  land  or  sea, 
On  mountain  top  or  flowery  lea, 
In  clouds  above  or  air  around 
Proofs  of  Omnipotence  abound. 

All  nature  is  his  diadem, 
In  which  is  set  some  priceless  gem ; 
Man  cannot  add  or  take  away, 
His  part  is  merely  to  obey. 

The  seasons  pass  and  years  roll  round, 
Changes  on  every  side  are  found  ; 
Man,  bird  and  beast  have  their  short  day, 
While  God's  transcendent  law  holds  sway. 

The  works  of  man  are  mean  and  frail ; 
Our  hardest  toil  cannot  avail 
Against  God's  plan,  which  e'er  appears 
In  atom  small  and  heavenly  spheres. 

This  wondrous  earth  with  all  its  gifts 
One  import  has  to  him  who  lifts 
Himself  above  the  grovelling  throng, 
And  lives  devoid  of  strife  and  wrong. 

'Tis  that  we  worship  God,  and  seek 
To  make  each  act  distinctly  speak 
In  louder  terms  than  words  can  do  ; 
Though  hands  may  err  our  hearts  are  true. 


£.  Sreene. 

Mrs.  Greene,  formerly  Isabel  Colton,  is  a  native  of  Pittsfleld,  Vt.  At  an  early 
age  she  removed  to  this  state,  and  her  home  is  in  Nashua.  Her  youth  was  devoted 
to  music,  which  her  friends  regarded  as  her  one  gift,  ballad  singing  and  church 
music  being  her  specialties.  Maturer  years,  however,  have  developed  a  talent  for 
writing,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  in  the  former  of  which  she  is  best  known. 


MY  LOVE.— A  SONG. 

My  love,  she  wears  a  gown  of  white, 

A  red  rose  in  her  hair  ; 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  stars  of  night, 

Oh,  my  love,  she  is  fair ! 


670  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Her  singing,  as  she  trips  along, 
The  birds  all  list  to  hear, 

And  die  with,envy  at  her  song, 
It  is  so  sweet  and  clear. 

And  when  she  stoops  above  one  flower, 
And  takes  it  to  her  breast, 

Its  heaven  begins  that  veiy  hour, — 
It  pities  all  the  rest. 


IBUen  Jftci£otats  jftason. 

Ellen  McRoberts  was  born  in  Baldwin,  Me.,  October  5,  1850,  of  Scotch-Irish 
parentage  on  the  father's  side.  She  was  educated  after  the  usual  manner  of  farm 
ers'  daughters,  at  the  different  high  schools  and  academies  of  the  county,  and  ;it 
the  Farmington  (Me.)  Normal  School.  She  was  a  teacher  for  a  short  time,  until 
1873,  when  she  was  married  to  Mahlon  L.  Mason,  of  North  Conway,  the  proprietor 
of  one  of  the  many  summer  hotels  there,  the  Sunset  Pavilion.  Mrs.  Mason's  liter 
ary  career  has  begun  since  her  marriage,  and  it  is  chiefly  from  her  short  storiesand 
descriptive  articles  that  have  appeared  occasionally  in  the  Boston  Sit  mini/  Courier, 
the  Granite  Monthly,  the  Portland  Press  and  Transcript,  that  she  is  known  as  ;t 
writer.  Her  stories  have  been  commended  by  John  G.  Whittier.  She  has  genuine 
pathos  and  humor,  united  to  a  great  love  and  tender  appreciation  of  nature,  tluit 
has  been  fostered  by  living  among  the  grand  |and  beautiful  scenes  of  her  present 
home. 


A  CHRISTMAS  MEMORY. 

Within  a  dear  old-fashioned  room, 
All  flooded  with  a  rosy  bloom, 
In  the  fire's  gleeful  blaze  and  glow 
I  watch  a  vision  come  and  go. 

A  Christmas  thirty  years  ago  ; 
The  world  without  up-piled  with  snow, 
Gre}-,  early  day  and  children's  din, 
And  merry,  happy  hearts  within. 

Glad,  happy  hearts  save  all  but  one, 
And  his,  whose  life  was  last  begun, 
The  pet  and  darling  of  the  rest, 
The  one  I  always  loved  the  best. 

My  troop  of  boys,  I  see  them  now, 
Grave  Jamie  with  his  thoughtful  brow, 
And  Will  and  Georgie  full  of  glee, 
As  handsome  lads  as  you  might  see. 

And  Robin  with  his  glowing  face, 
And  earnest  eyes  and  witching  grace  ; 
Ah,  I  shall  see  long  as  I  live 
That  little  mouth  so  sensitive  ! 


ELLEN  MC  B  OBER  T8  MASON,  6  7 1 

But  Rob  had  been  a  naughty  boy, 
And  so,  instead  of  longed-for  toy, 
Above  his  stocking  jammed  and  thick, 
I  hung  a  cruel,  slender  stick  ! 

"Mamma  does  Santa  Glaus  hate  me?" 
The  tear-wet  face  was  sad  to  see  ! 
"That  stick — I  did  not  think  he  would — 
I've  tried  so,  lately,  to  be  good  !" 

'Tis  years  agone  and  I  am  old, 
And  many  feelings  have  grown  cold, 
But  when  the  vision  comes  again 
I  feel  the  olden  thrill  of  pain ! 

For  soon  there  was  a  little  mound 
Thrown  up  above  the  frozen  ground, 
And  the  pure  white  and  blessed  snow, 
Soft  hid  the  scar  of  my  great  woe. 

Though  many  sins  and  many  a  wrong 
Have  been  mine  since,  forgot  ere  long, 
This  ever  comes  at  Christmas  time 
To  haunt  my  age,  as  in  my  prime  ! 

I  feel  now  we  are  far  apart, 
How  sore  I  griev'd  the  tender  heart ! 
And  I  shall  see  long  as  I  live 
That  little  mouth  so  sensitive  ! 


MY  DEAD  LOVE. 

They  gazed  upon  her  sweet,  pale  form 
No  earthly  kiss  npr  clasp  could  warm ; 

And  moaned,  "How  hard  that  she  should  die  !" 
But  I  who  loved  her  faintest  sigh, 

I,  knowing  how  her  heart  had  bled, 
Thought,  "Better  far  that  she  is  dead  !" 

For  we  had  met  when  far  too  late, 
And  she  was  chained  by  cruel  fate, 

And  we  could  only  live  apart 

Who  should  have  lived  as  heart  to  heart. 

First  since  her  death  has  set  us  free 
I  feel  that  she  belongs  to  me. 


G72  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  in  the  land  she  enters  in 
Is  her  love  counted  there  a  sin? 

Among  us  all,  ah,  who  can  say  ? 
"We  wait  the  light  of  clearer  day. 

But  now  that  death  has  set  us  free, 
As  I  love  her  does  she  love  me? 


UNRECONCILED. 

I  sit  within  a  dismal  room  ; 

A  cheery  fire  burns  low, 
And  sends  athwart  the  tender  gloom, 

A  rosy,  dull,  soft  glow. 

It  gleams  on  gilt  and  pictures  rare, 
On  bronze  and  silk  and  -lace  ; 

On  flowers,  books,  and  all  things  fair, 
Bujt  not  on  the  sweet  face 

Of  m}-  own  bright,  home-keeping  dove, 
The  form  of  sprightful  grace, 

The  large,  brown  eyes  alight  with  love, 
Brown  head  and  sweetest  face. 

The  lovely  face  a  year  ago 
Made  radiant  all  things  here, 

It  gave  the  fire's  heartsome  glow 
And  lent  the  sunny  cheer. 

They  tell  of  sorrows  she  has  flown, 

And  prate  of  her  blest  lot ; 
I  shrink  with  dread  from  life  alone, 

And  mourn  the  time  that's  not. 

I  hate  their  talk  of  saintly  joys, 
Their  wondrous  far-off  land  ; 

I  want  the  thrill  of  her  soft  voice, 
The  touch  of  her  warm  hand  ! 

Might  die  the  hope  to  be  forgiv'n 

Were  we  not  far  apart ! 
For  better  than  the  hope  of  heaven 

The  smile  that  warmed  mv  heart ! 


CLARA  E.  BOLLES.  .  673 


MY  MONITOR. 

My  little  boy  with  large  eyes  eager  wide, 

And  lips  a-tremble,  piteous  to  see, 
Comes  often  slow  and  gravely  to  my  side, 

And  humble,  lowly  asks,  "Do  you  love  me?" 

With  kiss  and  fond  embrace  I  answer  him, 

Agrief  to  see  the  pretty  face  so  sad  ; 
Still  swimming,  tender  tears  the  blue  eyes  dim, 

He  pleads  :  "And  do  you  love  me  when  I'm  bad  ?  " 

How  oft  we  grieve  the  Father's  loving  heart ! 

How  oft  rebellious  are,  dear  little  lad  ; 
He  pardons  when  we  choose  the  wrong,  sad  part, 

And  loves  us  evermore,  though  we  are  bad  ! 

So  may  much  patience  mingle  with  my  love, 

And  I  grow  fitter  still  to  council  thee 
With  purest  wisdom  given  from  above, 

And  may  the  patient  Father  bear  with  me  ! 


Clara  IE. 

Miss  Bolles  Is  a  native  of  Richmond,  where  she  resides. 


"JESUS  ON  THE  SHORE." 

Through  the  night  of  sin  we  journeyed, 

Stumbling  oft  beside  the  way, 
For  the  clouds  hung  thick  above  us, 

Veiling  every  stariy  ray. 
Then  there  came  a  voice. to  cheer  us, 

One  we  ne'er  had  heard  before, 
Lo !  the  morning  light  was  breaking, 

"Jesus  stood  upon  the  shore." 

Sorrow's  wing  was  brooding  o'er  us, 

And  we  knew  not  where  we  trod, 
For  the  tear-drops  dimmed  our  vision 

As  we  felt  the  chastening  rod. 
Then  a  light  shone  through  the  darkness, 

And  we  whispered  o'er  and  o'er, 
"Grief  depart,  your  reign  is  over, 

Jesus  stands  upon  the  shore." 

Want  and  woe  were  hastening  toward  us, 
Pallid  phantoms,  stern  and  grim, 


G74  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  we  knew  not  how  to  pass  them, 
For  our  faith  was  growing  dim. 

But  the  hand  of  love  that  led  us 
Kindled  up  the  flame  once  more, 

And  we  felt  the  blest  assurance — 
"Jesus  stands  upon  the.shore." 

And  this  thought  will  come  to  cheer  us, 

Drifting  on  life's  ocean  wide, 
Floating  nearer,  ever  nearer 

To  the  home  be}'ond  the  tide. 
Though  the  storm  ma}-  sweep  the  waters, 

And  the  billows  loudty  roar, 
Peace,  be  still,  we'll  anchor  safety-, 

"Jesus  stands  upon  the  shore." 

Death  is  coming,  surely  coming, 

And  the  shadows  of  the  grave, 
But  we  need  not  fear  its  terrors, 

If  we  trust  His  power  to  save. 
Lights  are  gleaming  in  the  valley, 

Shining  through  the  crystal  door, 
And  in  yon  eternal  morning, 

Jesus  stands  upon  the  shore. 


THOUGHTS. 

The  day  wheels  slowly  down  the  west, 
And  night  with  star-gems  on  her  breast, 
Enthroned  within  her  purple  car, 
Comes  o'er  the  shadowy  hills  afar, 
A  moon-crowned  queen. 

And  through  the  darkness'  sable  pall, 
And  through  the  silence,  over  all, 
A  strain  of  far-off  music  rings, 
And  soft  the  touch  of  spirit  wings 
Falls  on  my  brow. 

I  check  my  heavy  tears  to  see 

That  which  the  daylight  veils  from  me  ; 

A  vision  of  that  unseen  land, 

A  glimmer  of  the  golden  sand, 

Shines  through  the  gloom. 

The  past  unlocks  her  golden  doors, 
I  wander  o'er  the  crystal  floors, 


BESSIE  BISBEE  HUNT.  G7o 

And  there  in  memory's  stately  halls 
Sweet  pictures  hang  upon  the  walls, 
To  comfort  me. 

Loved  forms  and  faces  come  again, 
With  cheering  words  to  soothe  my  pain  ; 
The}'  bring  a  balm  of  sweetest  flowers, 
From  their  own  sunlit  Eden  bowers, 
To  heal  in}-  heart. 

A  breath,  a  touch,  the  dream  is  fled  ; 
My  heart  with  gloom  is  overspread  ; 
I  touch  its  strings,  with  saddened  moan 
It  echoes  back,  alone,  alone, 
Alone  on  earth. 

Be  still,  oh  heart !  Oh  eyes,  be  clear ! 
Nor  dim  your  brightness  with  a  tear ; 
He  holds  thy  days  within  His  hand, 
That  which  thou  canst  not  understand 
He  knows  full  well. 

If  Marah's  waters  fill  thy  cup, 
Bow  down  th}*  head  and  drink  it  up ; 
He  mingles  bitter  with  the  sweet, 
To  make  the  future  more  complete, 
Th}T  heaven  more  dear. 


ISesste 


Mrs.  Hunt  was  born  in  northern  Vermont,  near  the  lake  Memphremagog.  Slit- 
received  her  education  in  her  native  state,  and  at  Dio  Lewis'  Lexington  School. 
She  studied  elocution  in  Boston.  In  1870  she  was  married  to  N.  P.  Hunt,  a  lawyer, 
of  Manchester. 


KNITTING. 

When  withered  leaves  go  flitting  t>y 

With  weird,  fantastic  gesture, 
When  earth  awhile  is  putting  on 

Her  staid  old  russet  vesture, 
When  cellars  hold  a  golden  store 

The  hand  of  toil  to  strengthen, 
And  when  across  the  gleaming  hearth 

The  shadows  daily  lengthen, — 

How  sweet  to  fill  the  chair  that  waits 
Beside  the  glowing  fender  ; 


670  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

To  know  the  hand  that  placed  it  there 
With  love  is  alwa3-s  tender ; 

To  draw  the  shining  needles  out, 
To  watch  them  glint  and  glisten. 

While  to  their  cheerful,  steady  click, 
Unconsciously  }'ou  listen. 

The  soft,  warm  wool,  a  shapely  ball, 

Upon  your  lap  is  lying, 
Or  else  to  play  at  hide-and-seek 

Upon  the  mat  is  trying. 
Your  cares  are  lulled,  as  in  and  out 

The  mystic  needles  hurry, 
And  for  a  while  is  quite  o'ercome 

The  arch-destroyer,  Worn7. 

Your  thought  flows  backward  to  the 

That  shone  for  you  the  brightest ; 
Your  heart  beats  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Its  measures  that  were  lightest ; 
There  falls  a  winsome,  gentle  breath, 

Ne'er  warmed  before  an  ingle, 
It  comes  from  out  that  summer's  day 

That  always  will  be  single. 

The  jo3rs  that  grew  when  love  was  new 

About  your  features  linger, 
As  one  by  one  the  stitches  fall 

From  off  your  taper  finger. 
If  Kensington  new  glories  wear, 

And  Holbein  seems  more  fitting, 
Oh,  let  us  cherish  to  the  last 

The  homely  joys  of  knitting. 


MOVING. 

Oh,  could  I  that  fine  April  morn  of  my  birth, 
With  vision  prophetic  have  looked  o'er  the  earth  ; 
Nay,  could  I  have  caught  but  a  gleam  of  its  pain. 
My  eyes  had  refused  their  poor  office  again. 

From  the  gray  of  life's  morning,  way  on  to  its  close, 
There  is  never  an  end  to  the  trail  of  its  woes. 
There  are  trials  degrading  and  trials  improving, 
But  the  trial  most  vexing  of  all  is  called  moving. 

Not  moving  a  friend  with  compassion  and  love, 
Not  moving  with  pity  the  angels  above, 


BESSIE  BISBEE  HUNT.  677 

Not  moving  amendments  beneath  a  proud  dome, 
But  moving  your  furniture,  changing  }-our  home. 

It  isn't  enough  that  your  boxes  are  packed, 
Your  closets  and  bureaus  and  cupboards  ransacked  ; 
There  are  carpets,  such  stupid,  refractory  things, 
I  only  wish  art  could  provide  them  with  wings. 

There  are  deadly  encounters  'twixt  funnel  and  stove, 
There  are  curtains  disposed  from  their  fixtures  to  rove. 
There  is  bric-a-brac  hiding,  and  pictures  that  tell 
The  torturous  tale  of  the  tumult  too  well. 

The  turmoil  of  politics  who  can  prevent? 
Without  turmoil  society  were  not  content ; 
But  give  us  in  quiet  our  homes  to  improve, 
And  banish  the  sj'ren  that  counsels  a  move. 


A  DEEP  SECRET. 

Why  is  it  so  restless,  the  wonderful  sea? 

'Tis  kissed  and  caressed  b}-  the  sun, 
The  low  winds  have  rocked  it  as  soft  as  could  be, 

Till  day  and  night  watches  were  done. 

The  stealthy  white  mist  in  her  trailing  array, 

Enfolding  the  sun's  ardent  beam, 
Has  given  it  shadows  and  phantoms  for  play, 

That  might  have  been  born  of  a  dream. 

Yet  up  the  sea-wall,  where  the  cliff-eagles  soar, 

It  is  dashing  itself  into  spray, 
And  never  a  moment  the  wide  sands  before 

Have  its  waters  been  willing  to  stay. 

You  white-sheeted  messengers  sailing  afar 
In  the  path  of  the  bright  beacon's  glow, 

And  whispers  drop  softly  from  many  a  star — 
The  secret  }'ou  surely  must  know. 

In  mood  rather  haughty,  triumphant  may  be, 
I  have  heard  the  sad  story  before  ; 

Did  it  cast  from  its  bosom,  unknowing,  poor  sea, 
The  one  precious  gem  of  its  store  ? 

Then  beat  of  your  woe  the  unending  refrain, 
Against  the  lone  cliff  and  the  cave  ; 

Search  over  and  over  the  sands  of  the  main 
A  treasure  your  white  lips  would  lave. 


078 


POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


The  winds  may  not  cradle  or  lull  yon  to  rest, 
But  hearken,  I'll  tell  you  it  low, 

On  shore  there  is  beating  in  man}'  a  breast 
The  unresting  throbs  of  your  woe. 


Hora  IBUa 


Miss  Chellls  is  a  native  of  Barre,  Vermont.  Since  her  early  childhood  she  h:i- 
resided  In  Claremont.  She  was  educated  at  Stevens  High  Scho'ol,  at  Kimball  I'liiou 
Academy  and  at  Mt.  Holyoke  Female  Seminary. 


HEART'S-EASE. 


All  among  the  grasses 
By  the  valley-stream, 
Hidden  in  the  clover 
Where  the  dew-drops  gleam, 
For  the  passing  stranger, 
Waits  a  happy  dream. 

Years  ago  the  summer 
Shone  upon  a  maid 
Weeping,  faint,  and  lonely, 
Where  the  shadows  played, — 
Sorrows  rose  to  greet  her 
Wheresoe'er  she  strayed. 

Dearest  of  Earth's  blessings 
Given  from  the  sky, 
More  than  all  else  meaning, 
Balm  for  ever}-  sigh, — 
Mother-love  had  left  her, 
For  the  home  on  high. 

With  a  tearful  blessing 
She  had  breathed  a  prayer, — 
"May  the  gracious  Father 
All  your  sorrows  share, 
Send  in  mere}"  heart's-ease 
With  your  earthly  care." 


As  she  wept  in  sadness 
All  the  lonely  hours, 
Quietly  there  blossomed 
Fairy  little  flowers, — 
Fresh,  as  they  had  fallen, 
From  eternal  bowers. 

Soft  as  purple  velvet 
Painted  in  with  gold, 
Smiling  from  the  grasses, 
They  their  story  told, — 
"We  are  little  heart's  ease 
From  the  heavenly  fold." 

Through  the  world  of  sadness, 
Mid  the  tears  of  woe, 
Where  the  smiles  of  gladness 
Lend  a  radiant  glow, — 
In  our  every  pathway. 
There  the  "pansies"  grow. 

Pansy  thoughts  for  heart's  ease,— 
May  they  ever  bloom  ; 
May  we  ne'er  forget  them 
In  our  hours  .of  gloom  ; — 
For  they  bring  a  blessing 
From  beyond  the  tomb. 


AUTUMN  LEAVES. 

Twisted  and  sere  are  the  leaflets, 
Naked  and  ghastly  the  trees, 

Nothing  but  skeleton  branches, 
After  the  autumnal  freeze. 


L  OB  A  ELLA  CHELLIS.  679 

Faded  the  garlands  of  summer, 

Stricken  the  wild  forest's  pride  ; 
Flown  are  the  fairy-like  songsters, 

Over  the  white-foaming  tide. 

Slowly  the  emerald  verdure 

Changed  to  a  fler}-  hue, 
Mocking  the  bright-circled  rainbow 

Hung  in  the  soft  azure  blue. 

Gaily  they  tossed  in  the  breezes 

Laughed  at  the  swift,  chilling  blast, 
Recked  not  that  during  the  darkness 

Sentence  of  death  had  been  passed. 

Slowl}r  and  sadly  the  leaflets 

Came  fluttering,  one  by  one, — 
Faster,  till  only  the  branches 

Gazed  at  the  slow-setting  sun. 


THE  GENTIANS. 

The  twilight  shades  had  fallen    Shone  like  a  silver  tear-drop, 
Upon  the  toilworn  day,  Framed  round  with  velvet  hue. 

While  dews  of  evening  mercy     ~.  ,      ,, 

Refreshed  the  heated  way;         One   P™.d»    blue    CUP    closed 

quickly, 

And,    when  the   moon  shone   In  cold  and  selfish  greed, 

»    golden  And  one  was  stretched  in  glad- 

Above  the  starlit  hours,  ness, 

There  came,  among  the  shadows,  To  fill  the  stranger's  need. 

The  angel  of  the  flowers. 

The  hedges  and  the  hill-sides 

The  purple  asters  brightened,     Wear  many  gentians  blue, 
The  golden-rods  grew  fair,          And  oft  as  summer  waneth, 
And   many   a   dream-thought    The  gentian  tale  is  new. 

blossomed  ^,  . 

Upon  the  midnight  air.  £air  gentians  closed  in  sadness 

Receive  no  blessed  light, 

All  wean*,  in  the  gloaming,        Yet  dream  of  falling  dew-drops 
The  angel  passed  in  haste,          Through  all  the  weary  night. 
W'here  merry-hearted  gentians 
Smiled  from  the  hedgerow  waste.£n<! -gentians  fringed  with  beauty 

Smile  on  the  opening  day  ; 

Within  each  fragile  chalice          And  oft  an  angel  pauseth 
A  drop  of  crystal  dew  To  greet  them  on  its  wa}*. 


680  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Hetttta 

Miss  Letitia  M.  Adams,  formerly  of  New  Boston,  resides  In  Goffstown,  and  is  a 
constant  contributor  of  verse  to  the  Farmers'  Cabinet. 


VIOLETS. 

Oh !  beautiful  the  buds  and  flowers 

That  bloom  in  bower  and  hall, 
The  glory  of  the  summer  hours 

Has  gathered  round  them  all, 
And  painted,  with  a  deeper  glow 

Than  human  art  can  claim, 
The  tiny  leaflets,  one  by  one, 

That  form  each  tiny  frame. 

But  not  for  me  the  tender  plants 

That  bloom  in  hall  and  bower ; 
My  heart,  amid  the  forest  wilds, 

Would  seek  a  lowlier  flower ; 
The  little  violet,  blue  and  white, 

That  lifts  its  modest  head 
Upspringing  from  its  mossy  banks 

When  winter's  winds  have  fled, 

To  me  a  nobler  lesson  speaks, 

A  richer  prize  I  claim, 
Though  humble  be  its  resting  place, 

And  humbler  still  its  name ; 
Its  simple  robes  of  pearl}-  white 

Or  azure  blue  outweigh, 
Cast  in  the  balance,  all  the  bloom 

That  decks  the  garden  way. 

Up  through  the  earth  so  bleak  and  bare, 
Up  through  the  clinging  sod, 

To  heaven  ir  lifts  a  smiling  face, 
.  With  perfect  trust  in  God ; 

An  earnest  purpose  full  and  free, 
A  calm  and  steadfast  will, 

A  strength  to  do,  to  dare,  to  be, 
Wrought  in  its  nature  still, 

Imparts  new  vigor  to  the  soul, 

As  bending  o'er  its  bed 
I  caught  these  meanings,  as  the  whole 

Unwritten  page  I  read, — 


LETITIA  M.  ADAMS.  681 

Unwritten,  save  by  angel  hands 

Unstained  by  human  art, 
I  claim  thee,  mid  earth's  bright  array, 

The  floweret  of  the  heart. 


FROM  SHORE  TO  SHORE. 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Adown  life's  rapid  river, 
The  unwearied  boatman  plies  the  oar, 

Forever  and  forever. 
We  brave  the  storm,  we  stem  the  tide, 

Though  fierce  the  waves  are  breaking, 
We  know  that  on  the  farther  side 

The  morning  light  is  waking. 

We  leave  behind  the  home  scenes  sweet, 

Lost  in  the  mellow  gloaming, 
To  seek  a  city's  golden  streets 

Where  stately  spires  are  looming ; 
While  fainter  flow  life's  golden  sands, 

And  faint,  and  fainter  ever, 
We  leave  at  morn  loved  household  bands, 

We  meet  on  earth,  no,  never. 

The  infant  in  the  mother's  arms, 

The  brown-eyed,  merry  rover, 
Cries,  "Mamma,  see,  the  boatman  pale 

Has  come  to  take  me  over." 
The  maiden  clasps  the  lover's  form 

In  fond  though  last  embracing, 
Ere  he,  upon  the  white  ship's  deck, 

Death's  stormy  tide  is  facing. 

The  husband  bids  the  wife  farewell, 

The  daughter  bids  the  mother, 
While  hand  in  hand  with  friendly  clasp 

The  sister  leaves  the  brother. 
Old  age  and  youth,  a  motly  crew, 

The  vessel  sides  adorning, 
Sail  gladly  forth,  where  full  in  view 

There  beams  a  brighter  morning. 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  shore  to  shore, 

We're  passing  on  forever ; 
Our  pilot  glides  us  safely  o'er 

The  dim  and  shadowy  river. 


G82  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


We  brave  the  storm  the  waters  o'er, 
Though  fierce  the  waves  are  breaking, 

Our  boat  has  neared  the  "shining  shore," 
A  heavenly  mom  is  waking. 


IS. 

Miss  Pickering  resides  in  Portsmouth,  the  place  of  her  nativity. 


RESTED. 

One  day,  a  fog  of  sober  care 

Had  covered  the  horizon  fair ; 

No  cheerful  light  was  shining  there, 

"No  heart  for  merry  words,"  said  we  ; 

"We'll  just  endure,  and  silent  be  ; 

E'en  silence  will  be  triumph  grand, 

Since  friction  galls,  on  every  hand." 

Life's  savor,  for  a  moment,  fled, 

And  left  distrust  and  doubt  instead. 

The  just  return,  we  dimly  saw, 

For  all  that  mortals  struggle  for. 

We  said,  "Oh,  life  doth  circles  make, 

And  steps  of  progress  fails  to  take." 

Just  then,  in  friendship's  vital  name, 

A  kind  and  helpful  presence  came  ; 

Backward  and  forth  the  signals  sped, 

Till — thought,  exchanged,  was  comforted. 

Life's  irritation  slighter  seemed, 

And  care,  though  present,  was  redeemed  •( 

And  flavor's  blessed  prick  returned, 

And  we,  bright  possibles,  discerned. 

No  jo}T  but  friendship's  ever  crept 

So  near  to  where  life-springs  are  kept. 

No  drop  of  oil,  to  touch  life's  wheels, 

So  surely  all  their  friction  steals. 

No  current  of  galvanic  force 

So  sends  the  blood  along  its  course. 

Ever,  as  soon  as  it  is  known, 

The  quickened  pulses  raise  their  tone, 

As  though  a  northern  breeze  had  blown. 

The  mist  its  pyre  breath  flies  before  ; 

Fair  weather  paints  the  west  once  more  ! 


L  UC  T  BENTLE  T  WIG  GIN.  683 


llucg 

Lucy  B.  Wiggin  was  born  in  Lowell,  Mass.,  July  6,  1850.  The  greater  part  of  her 
life  was  spent  in  Wakefleld.  At  her  graduation  from  the  Normal  School  at  Salem, 
Mass.,  in  1809,  she  was  chosen  class  poet,  and  the  poem  written  for  that  occasion, 
"The  Strength  of  the  Hills,"  was  the  first  of  hers  that  appeared  in  print.  Her  liter 
ary  work  was  done  within  a  period  of  about  six  years,  much  of  it  while  she  was 
teaching.  She  was  a  frequent  contributor  in  prose  and  verse  to  the  Christian  Union, 
the  Congregationalist,  and  the  Xeiv  England  Journal  of  Education,  and  an  oc 
casional  contributor  to  several  other  papers,  and  to  the  children's  magazine  now 
called  St.  Nicholas.  She  died  Jan.  26,  1876. 


THE  LIFE  THAT  NOW  IS. 

Not  gazing  always  toward  the  far  blue  sky, 

With  idle  wish  to  see  an  angel  pass, 
But  mindful  of  the  soft  winds  drifting  by, 

The  wealth  of  green,  the  sunlight  on  the  grass, 
I  stoop  to  pick  the  flowers  around  my  feet, 
Thinking  God  loved  them  when  he  made  them  sweet ; 

Thinking  that  he  would  have  me  love  them  too — 
The  daisies,  and  the  clover  red  and  white, 

The  shy,  wild  roses,  sparkling  yet  with  dew, 
The  blue-eyed  grass,  uplifted  to  the  light — 

And  thanking  him  that  with  such  beauty  here 

He  gave  the  seeing  eye,  the  hearing  ear. 

Not  longing  for  the  tranquil  evening  hour, 
When  busy  plans  must  all  be  laid  aside, 

When  active  hands  and  brain  must  lose  their  power, 
And  with  their  half-done  work  rest  satisfied  ; 

But,  drinking  in  the  blessed  morning  air, 

I  watch  the  climbing  sun  with  eager  pra}-er  : 

"The  whole  long  day  is  thine,  O  Lord,"  I  say, 
'•With  all  its  happy,  helpful  work  to  do ; 

For  single  eye  and  steady  hand  I  praj', 

To  do  my  part  ere  yet  the  day  is  through." 

The  noon  must  come,  and  afterward  the  night, 

But  first  and  best  is  this  glad  morning  light ; 

This  light  in  which  our  duties  stand  out  clear, 
When  earth  and  sky  alike  are  free  from  doubt, 

When  even  distant  mountain  tops  draw  near, 

And  far-off  pine-trees  stretch  their  branches  out ; 

Uncertain  yet  I  feel  what  life  maj"  give, 

But  certain  that  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  live. 

To  live  is  Christ ;  not  glorious  death  alone 
Unites  us  with  the  Master,  at  whose  feet 


G84  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  small,  brown  sparrow  never  fell  unknown, 
And  ne'er  unheeded  bloomed  the  lily  sweet. 
By  walking  in  His  footsteps  we  may  see 
How  fair  and  good  our  common  life  can  be. 


THANKSGIVING  DAY.  • 

The  toil-crowned  year  is  drawing  to  a  close, 

The  weary  earth  has  laid  her  down  to  rest ; 
No  dreams  of  spring  disturb  her  deep  repose, 
Or  stir  the  cold  hands  clasped  across  her  breast. 
The  harvest  labor  done, 
No  new  work  yet  begun, 
Why  should  not  man  with  one  brief  pause  be  blest? 

Not  labor  only  is  the  gift  of  God, 

But  mirth  and  joy  he  freely  doth  commend. 
When,  after  countless  turnings  of  the  sod, 

The  season's  fruits  have  reached  their  perfect  end, 
Then  shall  our  portion  be, 
With  happy  hearts,  care-free, 
To  taste  the  blessings  which  the  Lord  doth  send. 

This  is  our  one  bright  day  of  leisure  sweet 

In  all  the  busy,  bleak  New  England  year ; 
In  this  brief  space  do  friends  long  parted  meet, 
And  life  seems  wholly  merriment  and  cheer. 
Around  us  and  above, 
Divine  and  human  love 
Make  heavenly  sunshine  in  this  lower  sphere. 


25. 


Miss  Wlggin,  a  sister  of  the  late  Miss  Lucy  B.  Wlggin,  resides  in  Mapleuood, 
Mass.  Her  early  life  was  passed  in  Wakefielu,  where  is  still  her  home  in  summer* 
and  autumns. 


ADVENT. 

\      "Where  Is  the  promise  of  His  coining?" 

Throughout  the  Christian  world, 

With  banners  half  unfurled 
Expectant  stand  the  waiting  multitude  : 

Hosannas  }-et  unsung 

Tremble  on  every  tongue 
With  holy  awe  and  reverent  jo}-  endued. 


EDITH  E.   WIGGIN.  f,85 


Above,  the  belfry  chime 

Waits  the  appointed  time 
To  herald  forth  the  coming  of  His  feet ; 

While  sacred  walls  within 

Are  hung  with  living  green, 
Of  life  that  never  dies  the  emblem  meet. 
Soon  shall  appear  the  Dayspring  from  on  high  ; 
The  darkness  fades,  behold  !  the  dawn  is  nigh  ! 

E'en  now  o'er  land  and  sea 

The  lessening  shadows  flee 
Before  the  light :  along  the  eastern  sky, 

In  lines  of  gold  and  rose 

The  promise  glows. 

Shall  lips  of  listening  choirs 

And  bells  in  lofty  spires 
Meet  the  first  Gloria  of  the  angelic  throng, 

And  not,  oh  heart,  in  thee 

An  answering  melody 
The  music  of  the  heavenly  host  prolong  ? 

With  holy  zeal  and  love, 

And  works  thy  faith  to  prove. 
Within  thyself  thy  Bethlehem  prepare  ; 

Bring  to  His  waiting  shrine 

The  best  of  what  is  thine, 

Thy  gold  and  frankincense  of  praise  and  pra3Ter 
So  shall  the  truest,  best  fulfilment  be 
Of  type  and  sign  and  ancient  prophecy. 

And  when  His  burning  star 

Shines  in  the  east  afar, 
Rejoice  with  heart  and  voice,  for  unto  thee 

On  the  glad  Christmas  morn 

Shall  Christ  be  born  ! 


OCTOBER  VIOLETS. 

We  stood  in  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
The  friend  of  my  heart  and  I, 

Where  the  sunset  glow  of  the  maples 
Met  the  sunset  glow  of  the  sky. 

A  breath  of  the  coming  winter 

Came  down  from  the  pine-clad  hill ; 

Its  shadows  crept  over  the  landscape, 
And  over  our  hearts  its  chill. 


686  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

We  talked  of  our  sunny  childhood, 

Of  hopes  that  long  ago 
We  hud  watched  with  the  opening  blossoms 

As  lightly  come  and  go. 

The  dreams  of  our  early  morning 
Like  the  dew  had  passed  away  ^ 

Our  skies  of  gold  and  crimson 
Had  turned  to  leaden  gra}'. 

In  the  }Tears  that  lay  before  us, 

Half  seen  through  the  distant  haze, 

The  winters  grew  drearily  longer, 
And  briefer  the  summer  days. 

Like  a  breath  from  the  far-off  south-land 
Came  a  fragrance  faint  and  sweet, 

And  behold  !  blue  violets  nestled 
Low  down  in  the  grass  at  our  feet. 

As  brightly  the}'  bloomed  in  their  beauty, 
At  the^close  of  that  autumn  day, 

As  when  they  wrere  tenderly  folded 
In  the  blossomy  arms  of  May. 

Then  one  to  the  other  spoke  softly  : 
"Oh  iriend,  let  our  grievings  cease  ; 

Let  us  take  to  our  hearts  with  gladness 
This  message  of  light  and  peace. 

"Let  us  lift  our  eyes  to  the  future 
With  a  steady,  trustful  gaze, 

For  violets  still  are  waiting 
To  bloom  in  October  da3's." 


ftteibm  J. 


This  poet  and  musician  was  born  in  Springfield,  Sept.  30, 1830.  lie  wa<  educated 
at  Colby  Academy,  New  London,  graduating'  there  in  J867.  Afterwards  lie  went  t» 
Boston  and  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits.  During  the  past  twelve  years  hr  has 
been  a  frequent  contributor,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  to  periodical  publications  "t 
that  city.  He  is  also  author  of  several  musical  works,  both  vocal  and  instrumen 
tal,  ana  is  header  of  a  successful  musical  organization,  known  as  "Messer's  Orches 
tra." 


KEARSARGE. 

The  mountain  side  is  broad  and  steep, 

The  mountain  top  is  gray  and  hoary  ; 
'Tis  toilsome  up  the  the  crags  to  creep, 


MEL  VIN  J.  ME S SEE.  687 

But  oh  !  how  grand  the  burst  of  gloiy 
Which  breaks  upon  the  'raptured  sight 
When  once  attained  its  utmost  height ! 

On  ever}'  side  are  fragments  strewn 

Of  massive,  pre-historic  boulders, 
Vast  buttresses  of  ragged  stone  ; 

Not  that  which  crumbles,  rots  and, moulders, 
But  that  which  stands  in  strength  sublime, 
Defying  storm  and  sun  and  time. 

Adown  the  slopes  in  sombre  green        • 

The  old,  primeval  forest  reaches, 
Tall  hemlocks,  bosky  spruce  between, 

Then  groves  of  maple,  birch  and  beeches. 
And  at  its  base,  in  fruitful  pride, 
The  fertile  fields  stretch  far  and  wide. 

Bright,  gem-like  lakes  flash  far  and  near, 

Like  diamonds  in  an  emerald  setting, 
And  forest  brooks  creep,  cool  and  clear, 

Through  woody  glades,  their  ripples  wetting 
The  tangled  wild  flowers  at  their  edge, 
Or  murmuring  low  through  marshy  sedge. 

O  scene  of  beaut}-,  vast  and  fair  ! 

My  heart  goes  out  to  thee  in  gladness, 
And  loses,  in  thy  mountain  air, 

Each  thought  of  sorrow,  care  and  sadness. 
The  Switzer's  land,  the  world  at  large 
Can  ne'er  o'ermatch  our  own  Kearsarge  ! 


ULTIMA  THULE. 

Afar  from  this  world,  which  is  fruitful  alone  in  dissensions  ; 
Afar  from  its  turmoil  and  noise  and  incessant  commotion  ; 
Afar  from  its  dead,  and  the  sound  of  the  groans  of  its  dying, 

Alone  will  I  wander. 

And  yet  not  alone  :  my  Ps3-che,  my  soul,  thou  art  with  me, 
Together  we'll  seek  the  fair,  tranquil  Hesperian  gardens 
That  lie  o'er  the  outermost  bounds  of  the  measureless  ocean, 

Far,  far  to  the  westward. 

How  soft  are  the  airs  which  just  stir  the  voluptuous  ether ! 
The  languorous  breathings  of  viols  and  flutes  and  soft  cytherns 
Are  not  more  caressing,  more  thrillingly  sweet  to  the  hearing 

Thau  these  to  our  senses. 


088  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Then  let  us  recline  at  our  will  in  this  beautiful  Aidenn, 
Where,  glancing  aslant  through  the  shining  green  foliage  above  us, 
The  apples  of  gold  gleam  athwart  the  deep  blue  of  the  heavens, 

A  wonderful  picture ! 

The  vast,  mighty  pulse  of  the  mystic  and  strange  world  around  us 
Throbs  calmly  and  strong  in  a  God-like,  melodious  rhythm, 
In  perfect  accord  are  the  heavens,  the  earth,  and  the  ocean — 

The  Cosmos  of  nature. 

Oh  !  could  we  prolong  to  the  eve  of  our  dual  existence 
This  state  of  enchantment,  this  dwelling  at  will  in  elysimn, 
Like  the  eons  of  dreams  of  the  tranquil-eyed  eaters  of  Lotos, 

How  blest  were  our  living  ! 

But  we  must  awake  and  away,  o'er  the  measureless  ocean ; 
We  must  taste  once  again  of  the  bitterness  wrung  from  the  real ; 
We  must  mingle  with  darkness,  with  sorrow,  with  crime,  and 
with  curses, 

Alas  for  our  dreaming ! 


George  j5 

Geo.  S.  Dorr  was  born  in  Wakefleld,  May  12, 1851.  At  the  age  of  20  years  he  be 
gan  the  carpenter's  trade,  and  that  was  hia  principal  occupation  till  18M,  when  lie 
engaged  in  the  printing  business  by  establishing  the  Carroll  County  Pioneer  at 
Wolfeborough  Junction. 


NEW  ENGLAND  HOMESTEADS. 

Others  may  sing  of  the  south -land  warm, 

Where  never  the  cold  winds  blow, 
Where  never  is  felt  the  chilling  storm, 

Or  is  seen  the  drifts  of  snow, 

Where  the  soft  breeze  sweeps,  with  its  breath  of  balm, 
Through  the  groves  of  orange  and  stately  palm. 

The  land  may  be  fair,  and  warm  its  skies, 

Each  breeze  with  sweetness  laden, 
And  briyht  the  glance  from  the  midnight  eyes 

Of  dark-haired  southern  maiden  ; 
But  New  England's  homes  are  dearer  to  me 
Than  this  southern  brightness  ever  could  be. 

And  far  away  in  the  sunset  land, 

The}'  sa}-  the  rivers  that  flow 
Leave  gold  upon  their  glittering  sands, 

As  down  to  the  sea  they  go ; 


GEOEGE  S.  DOBS.  689 

And  whoever  may  reach  that  golden  shore, 
Shall  search  not  in  vain  for  the  shining  ore. 

Oh,  wealth  may  be  there  for  those  who  reach 

Those  vallej-s  by  hills  unrolled, 
But  who  would  leave  his  New  England  home, 

For  a  head-stone  of  yellow  gold  ; 
And  thousands  who  go  to  that  sunset  land 
Find  only  a  grave  mid  its  golden  sand. 

There  is  wealth  amid  New  England's  hills, 

For  those  who  earnestly  strive, 
And  he  who  wisely  his  acres  tills, 

Is  one  who  will  surety  thrive  ; 
The  man  with  a  farm  mid  New  England's  shade 
Has  a  crown  of  wealth  which  never  will  fade. 

The  sunshine  falls  with  a  loving  li^ht 

On  the  homestead  old  and  brown, 
And  breezes  sweet  with  the  dews  of  night 

From  the  mountain-tops  sweep  down  ; 
And  no  south-land  owns  a  sweeter  perfume 
Than  comes  from  New  England's  flowers  in  bloom. 


'Tis  no  sunny  south-land  now  I  sing, 

'Tis  no  golden  sunset  plain, 
Nor  prairie  land  whose  acres  bring 

Their  wealth  of  golden  grain  ; 

But  New  England  homesteads  made  bright  and  fair 
By  the  rosy-cheeked  maidens  dwelling  there. 

Though  no  orange-trees  our  valleys  fill, 

And  we  see  no  stately  palms, 
There  are  groves  of  pine  on  every  hill, 

That  can  boast  a  thousand  charms  ; 
Though  our  rivers  wash  up  no  sands  of  gold, 
They're  the  means  of  bringing  us  wealth  untold. 

Stay  in  the  homestead,  though  old  it  seems, 

And  stick  to  New  England  now, 
There  is  wealth  in  her  valleys  and  streams, 

And  health  on  her  mountains'  brow  ; 
And  hearts  that  are  warm  mid  the  snow  and  rime, 
As  any  that  beats  in  a  southern  clime. 


690  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  SUMMER  HOME. 

Inscribed  to  John  G.  Whittier. 

New  Hampshire's  granite  hills  look  down 

On  many  a  lovely  vale, 
Where  sweetly  scented  meadows  mark 

The  river's  winding  trail ; 
And  here  and  there  a  giant  tree, 

Like  sentries  dark  and  grim, 
Shows  where  the  primal  forest  stood, 

In  ages  past  and  dim. 

There's  wooded  hill  and  granite  ledge, 

With  fairy  lake  between, 
And  nooks  where  bloom  the  sweetest  flowers, 

And  twines  the  evergreen  ; 
Fair  nature  in  a  pleasant  mood 

Hath  smiled  on  hill  and  dell, 
And  fashioned  many  a  lovely  glen 

That  holds  a  witching  spell. 

But  yet  no  single  spot  can  claim 

More  lavish  gifts  from  her, 
Than  vales  and  hills  of  Ossipee, 

With  groves  of  spruce  and  fir ; 
No  fairer  stream  than  Bearcamp  flows 

Through  flowery  meads  along, 
And  mingles  with  the  gentle  breeze 

The  burden  of  its  song. 

And  here,  amid  these  sylvan  scenes, 

To  rest  his  weary  feet, 
When  summer's  throbbing  pulse  is  high 

There  comes  a  singer  sweet ; 
"Among  the  hills"  of  health  and  balm, 

He  seeks  his  days  of  rest 
In  pleasant  nooks,  by  winding  streams, 

That  seem  to  him  the  best. 

And  here  he  weaves  some  pleasant  rhyme 

From  threads  by  nature  spun, 
And  mingles  in  the  golden  web 

The  rays  of  summer's  sun  ; 
Each  note  within  his  happy  song 

A  child  may  understand, 
And  catch  the  rhythm,  pure  and  sweet, 

Of  music  deep  and  grand. 


GEOEGE  S.  DOEE.  69] 


Sweet  singer  of  our  northern  hills, 

Our  valle3-s  and  our  streams, 
You  throw  around  us,  by  your  words, 

The  happiness  of  dreams  ; 
And  each  New  England  heart  shall  call 

For  thee  a  blessing  down, 
And  weave  a  spra}'  of  amaranth, 

Within  thy  laurel  crown. 

New  England's  son  thou  e'er  hast  been, 

And  love  thy  mother  still, 
Nor  seek  be3'ond  New  England's  pale 

For  joys  thy  heart  to  fill ; 
You've  sung  her  praises  loud  and  long, 

And  seeds  of  love  have  sown, — 
For  sweetest  la}rs  her  poet  sings, 

She  claims  you  as  her  own. 

We  gladly  own  the  spell  you  weave 

Around  our  simple  hearts, 
And  thank  yon  for  the  spring  of  joy 

That  never  more  departs  ; 
Your  verses,  rich  with  tenderness, 

We  ever  love  to  scan  ; 
You  teach  us  how  to  worship  God, 

By  more  of  love  to  man. 

You  love  the  scent  of  birch  and  pine, 

We  read  it  in  your  song ; 
You  love  the  Bearcamp's  winding  stream, 

That  gently  flows  along ; 
You  love  the  hills  of  Ossipee, 

You  love  the  elm-tree's  shade, 
And  love  to  worship  at  the  shrine 

Which  nature  there  hath  made  ; 

And  in  your  pleasant  home,  beside 

The  smiling  Merrimack, 
You  hear  the  call  they  send  to  you, 

And  gladly  answer  back  ; 
In  many  seasons,  past  and  gone, 

Thy  feet  have  wandered  there, 
And  through  the  heart  there  ran  a  joy, 

Mid  verdure  soft  and  fair. 

And  'tis  our  trust  that  many  more, 
Thy  footsteps  still  may  press 


692  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  grass}'  paths  that  wind  among 
This  pleasant  wilderness  ; 

And  may  the  charm  be  potent  still 
To  wake  the  tuneful  strain, 

That  we  may  hear  thy  happy  song, 
Yet  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

Accept  this  humble  lay  of  mine, 

Imperfect  though  it  be  ; 
It  only  seeks  to  breathe  respect 

And  grateful  love  for  thee. 
No  word  that  I  can  speak -to-day 

Can  raise  thy  fame  more  high, 
For  in  New  England's  happy  homes, 

Thy  memory  ne'er  can  die. 


^Francis 


Professor  Richardson  was  born  In  Hallowell,  Maine,  May  29,  1851  ;  graduated  at 
Dartmouth  in  1871;  was  an  editor  of  the  Independent,  New  York,  1872  —  1877;  an  ed 
itor  of  the  Sunday  School  Times,  Philadelphia,  1878—  1880;  engaged  in  literary  work 
in  New  York,  1880  —  188-2;  and  elected  professor  of  Anglo-Saxon  and  English  in 
Dartmouth  College,  1882.  In  1879  a  volume  of  his  poetry  was  published  in  Phila 
delphia  entitled  "The  Cross." 


CHILD'S  HYMN  AT  NIGHTFALL. 

Jesus,  Jesus, 

The  day  is  almost  done, 
The  shadows  fly  across  the  sky, 

The  night  is  coming  on  ; 
And  through  the  fading  western  light 
A  great  red  star  is  shining  bright. 

Jesus,  Jesus, 

The  stars  are  very  high, 
And  higher  far  than  highest  star 

Thou  reign  est  in  the  sky  ; 
Yet  here  beside  me,  Lord,  thou  art, 
"With  waiting  ear  and  loving  heart. 

Jesus,  Jesus, 

The  wrongs  that  I  have  done, 
Both  great  and  small,  thou  knowest  all ; 

Forgive  them,  every  one  ; 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet  and  sound, 
And  guardian  angels  cluster  round. 


CHARLES  FRANCIS  RICHARDSON.  693 

Jesus,  Jesus, 

Ob,  bless  not  only  me  ; 
With  Thy  strong  arm  defend  from  harm 

All  who  need  help  from  thee  ; 
And  since  thou  knowest  whom  I  love, 
Send  all  a  blessing  from  above. 

Jesus,  Jesus, 

O  King  of  Paradise, 
When  shines  the  light  of  morning  bright 

Ope  thou  my  willing  e}*es  ; 
Or  if  earth's  morn  I  never  see, 
Take  me,  my  Saviour,  home  to  thee ! 


SERVICE. 

If  life  were  naught  but  living, 
And  death  were  only  death, 

Would  life  be  worth  the  giving, 
Would  men  thank  God  for  breath  ? 

Ah  no !  for  sweeter,  dearer, 
To  toil,  and  pray,  and  fast, 

II'  so  the  Lord  draw  nearer, 
And  bring  his  peace  at  last. 

Who  follows  him,  sees  mercies 

In  every  bitter  pain  ; 
Who  follows  not,  finds  curses 

Beneath  all  worldty  gain. 


COMFORT. 

A  single  word  is  a  little  thing, 

But  a  soul  may  be  dying  before  your  eyes 
For  lack  of  the  comfort  a  word  may  bring, 

With  its  welcome  help  and  its  sweet  surprise. 

A  kindly  look  costs  nothing  at  all, 

But  a  heart  ma}*  be  starving  for  just  one  glance 
That  shall  show  by  the  eyelid's  tender  fall 

The  help  of  a  pitying  countenance. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  bend  the  ear 
To  catch  some  tale  of  sore  distress  ; 

But  men  may  be  fainting  beside  us  here, 
For  longing  to  share  their  weariness. 


694  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 

These  gifts  nor  silver  nor  gold  may  buy, 

Nor  the  wealth  of  the  richest  of  men  bestow, 

But  the  comfort  of  word,  or  ear,  or  e}-e 
The  poorest  may  offer  wherever  he  go. 


HOPE. 

When  thick  on  our  hearts  fall  the  clouds  of  the  night, 
And  grief  and  distress  banish  joy  from  our  sight, 
Though  deep  in  the  darkness  of  sorrow  we  grope, 
We  bear  in  our  bosoms  the  promise  of  hope. 

When  woe,  sin,  and  death  whisper  naught  but  despair, 
And  there  fades  from  our  lips  the  sweet  purpose  of  prayer, 
Then  back  to  our  Father  does  hope  lead  the  way, 
And  fair  in  the  gloom  shines  the  promise  of  day. 

Or  if  God  in  his  love  grant  us  gladness  and  peace, 
Think  not  that  the  gifts  of  his  bounty  shall  cease ; 
Still  onward  points  hope,  for  God's  future  is  long, 
To  the  wise  shall  come  wisdom,  and  strength  to  the  strong. 


SACRIFICE. 

Short  is  the  lesson  the  master  hath  taught  us, 
Plain  is  its  meaning,  that  all  men  may  know ; 

Close  in  your  heart  hide  the  gift  that  he  brought  us, 
Out  in  your  life  let  its  influence  go. 

This  is  the  word  that  he  brought  us  from  heaven : 
Give  unto  others  the  things  you  count  dear ; 

Not  for  3'ourself  be  the  life  you  are  given  ; 
Not  all  your  own  be  your  happiness  here. 

Speed  thee  to  labor,  and  sorrow,  and  trial, 
Strong  be  the  heart  that  is  weary  and  sore  ; 

Welcome  be  hate,  and  neglect,  and  denial, 
If  but  the  Master  hath  known  them  before. 

So  shall  your  heritage  all  be  immortal, 

Thieves  shall  not  steal  it,  nor  canker  destroy ; 

Glimpses  of  glory  shall  brighten  death's  portal, 
Sorrow  and  sacrifice  rise  into  joy. 


CHAELES  FRANCIS  EICHAEDSON.  G95 

WORSHIP. 

Brave  spirit,  that  will  brook  no  intervention, 
But  thus  alone  before  thy  God  dost  stand, 

Content  if  he  but  see  thy  heart's  intention, — 

Why  spurn  the  suppliant  knee  and  outstretched  hand  ? 

Sweet  soul,  that  kneelest  in  the  solemn  glory 

Of  3Ton  cathedral  altar,  while  the  prayer 
Of  priest  or  bishop  tells  thine  own  heart's  story, — 

Why  think  that  they  alone  heaven's  keys  may  bear? 

Man  worships  with  the  heart ;  for  wheresoever 
One  burning  pulse  of  heartfelt  homage  stirs, 

There  God  shall  straightway  find  his  own,  and  never, 
In  church  or  desert,  miss  his  worshippers. 


STRENGTH. 

The  power  that  shaped  the  everlasting  hills 

Can  nerve  with  ghostly  strength  the  Christian's  arm, 

For  God  himself  his  servants'  hope  fulfils, 
And  bids  them  onward  go,  secure  from  harm. 

If  he  defend  us  not,  our  strength  shall  fail, 
Though  set  about  with  all  that  man  can  give, 

But  helped  by  God,  the  weakest  shall  not  quail, 
The  fainting  shall  arise,  the  dead  shall  live. 

Nor  need  we  wait  for  some  great  crucial  day 
Before  we  seek  in  God's  defence  to  stand ; 

He  guides  the  sweeping  planets  on  their  way, 
But  leads  his  little  children  by  the  hand. 


IMITATION. 

Where  shall  we  find  a  perfect  life  whereby 
To  shape  our  lives  for  all  eternity  ? 

This  man  is  great  and  wise  ;  the  world  reveres  him, 
Reveres,  but  cannot  love  his  heart  of  stone  ; 

And  so  it  dares  not  follow,  though  it  fears  him, 
But  bids  him  walk  his  mountain  path  alone. 

That  man  is  good  and  gentle ;  all  men  love  him, 

Yet  dare  not  ask  his  feeble  arm  for  aid ; 
The  world's  best  work  is  ever  far  above  him, 

He  shrinks  beneath  the  storm-capped  mountain's  shade. 


696  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

O  loveless  strength  !  O  strengtbless  love  !  the  Master 
Whose  life  shall  shape  our  lives  is  not  as  thou  ; 

Sweet  Friend  in  peace,  strong  Saviour  in  disaster, 
Our  heart  of  hearts  enfolds  thine  image  now  ! 

Be  Christ's  the  fair  and  perfect  life  whereby 
We  shape  our  lives  for  all  eternity. 


Urotone. 

This  poet  and  novelist  was  born  in  Deerfield,  Oct.  8,  1851.  Possessing  a  vivid 
imagination  and  a  keen  aptitude  for  the  study  of  human  nature  he  began  sketch 
writing  at  an  early  age.  He  has  written  for  Boston,  New  York  and  Chicago  pa 
pers  over  flfty  romances.  He  has  contributed  poems  to  the  Rural  Home,  and 
Yankee  Blade,  of  Boston,  to  the  New  York  Saturday  Journal,  Golden  Argosy,  and 
to  the  Granite  Monthly  of  this  State.  He  is  editor  of  The  American  Young' Folks, 
published  In  Manchester. 


EVER  CHANGING. 

After  the  darkness  comes  the  light, 
Chasing  the  shadows  swift  away  ; 

After  the  storm,  the  sunshine  bright, 
Giving  to  earth  a  gladsome  day. 

After  the  trial  comes  release, 
Bringing  to  life  a  joyful  calm ; 

After  the  sorrow,  then  the  peace, 

Healing  the  heart  with  soothing  balm. 

After  the  seed  the  harvest-time, 

Yielding  to  all  what  they  have  sown, 

Whether  to  youth  or  manhood's  prime, 
Many  a  flower  with  tares  o'ergrown. 

After  the  work  is  laid  aside 

Comes  the  hour  of  needed  rest ; 

Over  the  darkly  flowing  tide 
Lies  beyond  a  haven  blest. 

Ever  is  life  thus  marked  with  care 
Changing  303'  and  pain  and  all ; 

Sunshine  but  casts  a  shadow  where 
Lingering  rays  are  wont  to  fall. 


ALWAYS  LOOK  UP. 

Though  friends  prove  false  and  trust  betray, 
Or  deeds  unwise  lead  you  astray, 


GEOBGE  WALDO  BROWN.  C97 

Thus  making  life  seem  drear  and  cold, 
And  shadow  round  thee  casts  its  fold, 
Look  bravely  up,  and  never  down  ; 
'Tis  best  to  smile,  and  never  frown. 

Although  misfortune  seems  your  part, 
And  disappointment  clouds  your  heart, 
Or  sorrow  shrouds  your  soul  in  gloom, 
And  drear  despair  doth  point  its  doom, 
Look  bravely  up,  and  never  down  ; 
'Tis  best  to  smile,  and  never  frown. 

Thus  come  in  weal  or  come  in  woe, 
By  hand  of  friend  or  work  of  foe, 
The  cares  to-day,  the  fears  for  morrow, 
Though  life  doth  bring  distress  and  sorrow, 
Look  always  up,  and  never  down  ; 
'Tis  best  to  smile,  and.  never  frown. 


MOUNT  PAWTUCKAWAY. 

Monarch  of  the  hills  around, 

Valle3's  fair  and  grim  ravine, 
Grand  thy  rugged  form,  rock-bound, 

Clad  in  garb  of  sombre  green, 
With  thy  massive  summit  crowned 

B}r  the  sunlight's  golden  sheen, 

Deep  and  dark  thy  caverns  lie, 

Flanked  with  granite  seamed  and  sheer ; 
And  thy  frowning  crags  on  high 

Straight  their  dizzy  heights  uprear, 
Till  they  dim  the  gazing  eye, 

Till  the  heart  recoils  with  fear. 

Could  we  lift  Time's  magic  vail 

Strange  the  scenes  thou  wouldst  impart — 
Many  a  joy  and  bitter  wail 

Locked  within  thy  rocky  heart. 
Stamped  on  every  rift's.a  tale  ; 

Every  crag,  a  wilder  part ! 

Lo !  the  eagle  vigil  kept 

O'er  thy  wild  domain,  erstwhile  ; 

As  with  peace  the  panther  slept 
In  some  dell  or  dark  defile  ; 

And  unharmed  the  reptile  crept 
'Long  some  lonety,  forest  aisle. 


G98  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Or  anon  there  burst  in  view, 

Like  a  flash,  the  bounding  deer, 
As  a  backward  glance  he  threw, 

Quaking  with  an  inborn  tear 
Lest  a  lurking  foe  pursue 

From  amid  the  thickets  near. 

Ringing  'bove  thy  torrent's  roar, 

Waking  far  thy  mountain  world, 
From  thy  ramparts,  grim  and  hoar, 

Many  a  war-note  has  been  hurl'd  ; 
And  the  scene  of  wild  strife  o'er, 

Here  the  smoke  of  friendship  curl'd. 

Long  since  lost  are  those  deeds  wrought 

By  the  dusk}-,  forest  son  ; 
And  the  joys  his  camp-fire  brought 

When  the  day's  wild  sport  was  done  ; 
Happ}'  hunting-grounds  he's  sought 

Far  beyond  the  setting  sun  ! 

Where  the  panther  sought  his  prey 

Peaceful  cattle  safety  find  ; 
And  the  deer's  unknown  to-day, 

Save  the  name  he  left  behind  ;* 
As  of  old  the  sunsets  play 

On  thy  clifts  with  shadows  lined. 

Sounds  no  more  thy  thunders,  strange, 

That  awoke  the  valleys  'round  ;f 
Mid  the  years'  unceasing  change 

Tranquil  silence  tliou  hast  found  ; 
And  thy  one-time  wild  wood  range 

Is  to-day  a  pleasure-ground. 

Rivers  change  from  ancient  day, 
Founts  that  once  were  hid  are  seen  ; 

But  of  thee,  Pawtuckaway, 
With  thy  lofty,  constant  mien, 

Lives  thy  rugged, form  for  aye, 

Clothed  in  pine-firs'  deathless  green  ! 

Monumental  of  the  past, 

Standest  thou  on  rock-ribbed  throne, 

*  Pawtuckaway  is  an  Indian  name  meaning  "great  deer  place." 

t  A  few  years  since  strange  sounds  issued  from  this  mountain,  and  they  became 
s<>  violent  that  an  eruption  was  feared.    But  they  are  no  longer  heard. 


HORACE  EATON  WALKEE.  699 


With  thy  sheen  of  grandeur  cast  * 

O'er  unnumbered  ages  flown  ; 
And  majestic  wilt  outlast 

Time  and  space  to  man  unknown  ! 

3Eaton  SHalfter. 

H.  E.  Walker  was  born  in  Charlestown,  Aug.  9,  ia">2.  Since  that  time  he  has  re 
sided  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  and  Claremont,  the  latter  place  having  become  his  per 
manent  residence. 


THE  SEAMSTRESS. 

Oh,  3'e  that  love  the  honest  poor, 

And  feel  it  in  your  hearts 
To  aid  these  pure,  deserving  ones 

Where  every  hope  departs, 
Oh,  trace  with  me  the  rickety  stair, 

The  coarse,  uneven  way, 
And  I  will  point  you,  in  despair, 

A  woman  worn  and  gray. 

The  hour  is  late,  and  lamps  are  out, 

And  all  the  world  is  still, 
Save  music  from  the  banquet  hall, 

Where  goblets  clash  and  fill. 
The  distant  thud,  thud,  thud, 

Of  watchman  on  his  beat, 
Breaks  on  the  heart  like  tales  of  blood 

The  wild,  wild  winds  repeat. 

We  push  the  door  that  has  no  lock, 

No  bronzed  and  }'ielding  knob, 
And  there  beside  a  broken  stand, 

With  mingled  sigh  and  sob, 
A  careworn  mother  sits  and  sews, 

While  near  in  scanty  cot 
A  little  nursling  wild-flower  blows, 

By  all  the  world  forgot ! 

A  half-burned  candle  on  the  stand 

Makes  twilight  of  the  gloom  ; 
But  oh,  my  friend  of  countless  wealth, 

You  cannot  know  her  doom  ! 
You  cannot,  cannot  feel  as  she, 

Your  life  has  been  of  ease, 
Your  freighted  ships  are  on  the  sea 

Before  a  buoyant  breeze. 


700  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Oh,  \ay  aside  your  loaded  bags, 

Your  comfort,  ease  and  wealth, 
While  hopes  together,  side  by  side, 

Have  gone  with  rosy  health, 
And  sit  from  morn  to  latest  e'en, 

No  comforts  of  the  rich, 
Not  one  bright  hour  in  all  the  scene, 

And  stitch,  stitch,  stitch. 


Miss  Shoals  resides  In  Goshen,  the  place  of  her  nativity. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

Down  in  the  orchard  to-night  I  stray, 

With  June's  young  gloiy  around  me  spread  ; 
Her  emerald  carpets  beneath  my  feet, 
Wrhile  above,  the  apple  blossoms  sweet 
Fall  softly  around  my  head. 

Oh  beautiful  June,  thou  art  come  again, 
With  echo  of  bird-song  sweet  and  clear, 

With  perfumed  blossoms  and  sparkling  dew ; 

A  pictured  melody,  old  yet  new, 
My  heart  holds  ever  de*ar. 

Oh,  fair  is  the  early  summer  time  ! 

In  the  rosy  bloom  of  her  loveliness  ; 
Sweeter  than  spring,  so  pale  and  cold  ; 
Dearer  than  when  the  }'ear  grows  old, 

And  youth  and  bloom  are  less. 

And  the  snow}T  blossoms  come  drifting  down, 
Apple  and  cheriy,  peach  and  pear ; 

And  find  amid  the  grass  a  place 

To  hide  their  loveliness  and  grace 
That  made  the  orchard  fair. 

But  by  and  by,  in  the  autumn  time, 

When  flowers  have  faded  and  birds  are  mute, 
After  the  summer  winds  and  rain, 
Though  the  flowers  cannot  return  again, 
There  will  come  the  golden  fruit. 

And  I  trust  that  unto  our  human  hearts, 

There  will  sometime  come  an  autumn  day, 
When  our  lives  some  golden  fruit  shall  bear ; 


8AEAH  ELIZABETH  LANE.  701 

And  yet,  'tis  sad  that  first  the  fair, 
Sweet  flowers  must  pass  away. 

But,  ah  !  it  is  not  every  flower 

Fulfils  the  promise  of  its  bloom, — 
The  cruel  winds  and  storm  may  beat, 
The  blossom  fall  ere  'tis  complete, 

And  then  no  fruit  can  come  ! 

Oh  !  thou  who  fashioned  human  hearts, 

And  formed  the  flow'ret's  dainty  leaf,  ' 
Grant  that  from  out  our  early  bloom, 
Life's  good  and  perfect  fruit  shall  come, 

Unmarred  by  storms  or  grief. 


DREAMING  MID  THE  CLOVER. 

Idle  fancies  come  to  me,  Saddening  fancies  come  to  me, 

Dreaming  mid  the  clover  :  Dreaming  mid  the  clover ; 

While  the  busy  humble  bee        While  I  think  of  one  most  dear 
Roams  the  wide  field  over.          Their  red  blooms  wave  over. 
Gathering  sweets  from  morn  till  Down  beneath  the  emerald 

night,  leaves, 

Bus}-  little  miser,  'Neath  the  violets'  azure, 

While  the  butterfly  glides  by —  While  the  ring-dove  chants  her 
Tell  me  which  the  wiser?  praise, 

In  the  softest  measure. 
Happy  fancies  come  to  me, 

Dreaming  mid  the  clover  :  Ah  !  these  fancies  I  must  leave, 

Happiness  that  will  be  mine  Dreaming  mid  the  clover, 

Ere  their  bloom  is  over.  I  must  rise  and  wander  far, 

Pleasant  faces,  merry  smiles,  Ere  the  day  be  over. 

Gentle  words  low  spoken, —  I  must  work  and  I  must  wait, 

These  shall  keep  hearts  free  While  the  sun  is  o'er  me, 

from  guile,  With  a  heart  for  any  fate 

Healing  hearts  once  broken.  That  may  be  before  me. 


Sara!)  lEUmfcetij  Eane. 


Miss  Lane  was  born  in  Lowell,  Mass.,  April  29,  1856.  When  ehe  was  two  years 
of  age  her  parents  removed  to  Swanzey.  Their  home  is  called  "Elmclale,"  from  the 
large  elm-trees  near  the  house.  She  is  a  successful  school  teacher. 


A  WISH. 

What  shall  I  wish  for  thee,  my  dearest  friend  ? 
That  cloudless  skies  shall  ever  o'er  thee  bend  ? 


702  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

That  Fame  shall  give  to  thee'  a  glittering  crown, 
And  Fortune  at  thy  feet  cast  treasures  down  ? 

Naj7,  dear !  Life's  sweetest  flowers  would  droop  and  die, 
Did  not  dark  clouds  sometimes  o'erspread  the  sky. 
Fame,  though  most  fair,  would  give  thy  heart  no  rest, 
And  Fortune  proves  capricious  at  the  best. 

But  I  would  wish  for  thee  a  life  well  spent, 
A  life  of  love  and  trust  and  sweet  content, 
Whose  da}'s,  as  they  go  by,  shall  e'er  abound 
In  deeds  of  kindness  to  the  world  around. 

And  I  would  wish,  whatever  life  may  bring 
To  thee  of  sorrow  or  of  suffering. 
That  on  this  thought  thy  heart  might  ever  rest : 
"It  is  thy  Father's  will ;  He  knoweth  best." 

So  shall  thy  heart  be  filled  with  joy  and  peace  ; 

And  when  at  last  thy  labors  here  shall  cease, 

Th}T  conflicts  o'er,  thy  final  victor}'  won, 

Then  thou  shalt  hear  thy  Master's  words,  "Well  done?" 


UNDER  THE  ELMS. 

Under  the  elms,  in  a  low-swinging  hammock, 

Through  the  long  hours  I  lazily  lie, 
Dreamily  list'ning  to  summer's  sweet  music, 

Watching  the  white  clouds  float  through  the  blue  sky. 

Over  my  head  are  the  wide-spreading  branches, 

Through  the  green  leaves  falls  the  sunlight  like  gold  ; 

Bright  little  buttercups  nod  to  me  gaily, 

Sweet  clover-blossoms  hide  treasures  untold. 

From  the  clear  river  a  faint,  drows}'  murmur 

Comes  to  my  ears  through  the  warm,  fragrant  air ; 

Silver-voiced  birds  flutter  gaily  about  me, 
Singing,  "Was  ever  a  summer  so  fair !" 

Wrens  chatter  merrily  one  to  another, 

Bobolinks  pour  forth  their  notes  loud  and  clear, 

While,  from  the  woodland,  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo 
Plaintively  warns  us  that  showers  are  near. 

Gold-breasted  orioles  o'er  me  fly  swiftly 

To  their  snug  homes  hanging  low  from  the  tree, 

Brisk  little  sparrows  and  bluebirds  and  robins 
Join  in  the  concert  with  hearts  full  of  glee. 


LID  A  C.  TULLOCK.  703 


GOOD-BYE. 

Good-b}'e !  O  word  the  saddest  and  the  sweetest 
That  mortal  tongue  e'er  formed  or  pen  e'er  traced  ; 

With  thee  how  oft  is  deepest  sorrow  wakened, 
That  from  our  hearts  can  never  be  effaced. 

"Good-bj-e,"  we  say,  when  weeping  o'er  some  loved  one, 
On  whose  dear  face  grim  Death  has  set  his  seal, 

Whose  lips  no  more  return  our  fond  caresses  ; 
Ah,  then,  sad  word,  thy  bitterness  we  feel. 

"Good-bye,"  we  say  when  we  are  sadly  parting 
From  some  dear  friend  we  ne'er  may  meet  again  — 

Some  one  whose  life-path  seems  from  ours  diverging, 
The  while  our  hearts  are  filled  with  keenest  pain. 

And  must  we  say  good-bye,  dear  friend,  forever? 

Must  this  word  sadden  both  our  lives  alway  ? 
Our  Father  knows  ;  to  Him  we'll  trust  the  future  ; 

Perhaps  sometime  may  come  a  brighter  day. 

In  that  blest  world  that's  "just  bej^ond  the  river," 
There,  where  the  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye, 

Where  neither  sorrow,  sin  nor  death  shall  enter, 
We  never  more  shall  sadly  say  "Good-bye." 


Ultra  <&.  ftullocfc. 

Miss  Tullock,  formerly  of  Portsmouth,  resides  in  Washington,  D.  C. 


.      FORGIVE  THE  DEAD. 

Let  no  harsh  thoughts  of  what  has  been 

Remain  within  thy  breast, 
When  bending  o'er  the  coffined  form 

Of  one  who  is  at  rest. 

What  though  an  enemy  lies  there  ! 

Thou  canst  forgive  all  now  ; 
For  God  has  set  the  awful  seal 

Of  death  upon  that  brow. 

What  though  those  lips  spake  angry  words  ? 

Those  hands  were  raised  in  strife  ? 
Thou,  too,  wilt  need  such  deeds  forgiven, 

When  thou  hast  done  with  life. 


704    -  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Then  bring  sweet  flowers,  the  lily  fair, 
The  violet  and  the  rose, 

To  place  within  the  hand's  pale  clasp, 
That  never  will  unclose. 

And  when  the  form  is  laid  to  rest 
'Neath  earth's  green,  peaceful  sod, 

Sajr,  "I  forgive  !"  and  go  thy  way, 
Leaving  all  else  with  God. 


LILACS. 

'Tis  strange,  indeed,  how  slight  a  thing 
Will  oftimes  to  the  mem'ry  bring 

Scenes  of  the  vanished  past ; 
And  in  the  mind  we  live  once  more 
The  pleasures  of  those  days  of  j'ore, 

"Too  beautiful  to  last." 

The  fragrance  of  an  early  rose, 
The  tender  tints  fair  twilight  shows, 

Old  ocean's  thunderous  swell, 
Perchance  the  burden  of  a  song, 
Bearing  the  hearer's  heart  along, 

May  cast  the  witching  spell. 

'Tis  thus,  when  in  the  early  spring, 
Mid  growing  grass  and  birds  that  sing, 

The  lilac  blooms  anew  ; 
Its  subtle  perfume  steeps  m}-  soul, 
And  from  my  past  the  curtains  roll, 

Presenting  to  my  view 

The  old,  old  home,  where  by  the  wall 
The  lilac  bushes,  green  and  tall, 

Nodded  their  purple  plumes  ; 
Where  I,  a  happy,  jo3X)us  child, 
With  brothers,  sisters,  sporting  wild, 

Gathered  the  scented  blooms. 

I  see  again  my  mother's  face, 
So  full  of  holy  love  and  grace, 

Gaze  on  our  happy  pla}T, 
And  smile,  as  we  the  petals  string, 
And  round  our  necks  the  garlands  fling, 

That  wither  soon  away. 


KATE  J.  KIMS  ALL.  705 

Oh,  Lilacs  !  common  you  may  be, 
But  always  beautiful  to  me  ! 

For  do  you  not  recall 
Those  halcyon  days  of  early  youth, 
When  life  seemed  naught  but  hope  and  truth, 

And  love  illumined  all? 


mate  J,  ttfortall. 

Miss  Klmball's  home  has  been  in  Bath.    In  1882  she  went  to  South  Carolina. 


HYMN. 

'  Because  he  hath  set  his  love  upon  me,  therefore  will  I  deliver  him."— Psalm  XCI :  14. 

Jesus,  this  sinful  heart  of  mine 

Is  prone  to  set  its  love 
Upon  the  things  of  time  and  sense 

And  not  on  things  above. 

On  thee,  on  thee,  0  Saviour  Christ ! 

Could  I  but  fix  my  ejre, 
For  a  high  purpose  for  my  life 

I  should  no  longer  sigh. 

Oh,  glimpses  of  thy  loveliness 

In  pity  give  to  me, 
So  that  my  restless  heart  be  filled 

With  naught  but  thoughts  of  thee. 

And  then  shall  I  delivered  be 

From  each  besetting  sin, 
.     And  holy  peace  and  sweet  content 
Shall  reign  my  breast  within. 

And  then,  wherever  I  may  go, 

Whatever  I  may  be, 
M}T  every  thought  and  word  and  deed 

Shall  be  as  unto  thee. 

Jesus,  I  crave  this  blessedness, 

Not  for  my  sake  alone, 
But  that  in  me,  thy  humble  child, 

Thy  sacred  will  be  done. 


WHERE  JESUS  LEADS. 

Saviour,  where'er  thou  leadest  me 
Most  cheerfully  I  go, 


706  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSIIIEE. 


Over  the  mountains  high  and  steep, 
Or  through  sweet  valleys  low. 

And  either  through  the  wilderness, 

Or  in  the  city's  mart, 
With  joy  and  peace  I  go  with  Him 

Who  holds  my  hand  and  heart. 

Whether  in  life's  fierce  battle-strife, 

Or  safe  in  meadows  fair, 
Whether  the  sea  be  rough  or  calm, 

I  am  without  a  care. 

And  whether  in  my  Father's  house, 

Or  far  away  from  home, 
My  Saviour  guides  and  leads  and  keeps, 

Wherever  I  may  roam. 

With  thee  I  live  in  peace  with  them 

Who  love  or  who  hate  me, 
And  I'm  content,  when  all  forsake, 

To  be  alone  with  thee. 

Jesus,  while  thus  thou  leadest  me, 

I  cannot  go  astray, 
Thou  safely  keepest  me  who  art 

The  Life  and  Truth  and  Way. 


TO  THE  WHITE  VIOLET. 

Oh  little  flower  that  from  the  rich,  moist  earth 
Of  lonesome  wooded  roadsides  comest  forth 
In  the  warm  sunshine  of  the  gentle  May, 
And  sheddest  sweetest  fragrance  on  my  way, — 
I  dearly  love  the  tender  winsome  grace 
That  rests  upon  thy  tin}'  modest  face  ; 
Methinks  the  purple  of  thy  pencillings 
Is  softer  than  the  royal  dye  of  kings. 
Oh,  might  my  heart  be  pure  as  thou  art  white, 
And  might  my  faith  be  clear  as  thou  art  bright, 
And  might  sweet  charity  my  robes  perfume 
As  does  soft  fragrance  rest  in  all  thy  bloom, 
(Even  if  it  should  be  that  my  life's  lot 
Were  cast  in  some  such  shad}',  lonely  spot) 
I  would  not  ask  that  purple  limes  of  strife 
Should  be  removed  from  out  my  earthly  life. 


IDA  G.  ADAMS—  WILLIAM  HALE.  707 


Ida  G.  Adams  was  born  in  North  Weare,  Oct.  2,  1856.    She  is  a  sister  of  James  M. 
Adams,  whose  poems  are  found  elsewhere  in  this  volume. 


ENID. 

Have  you  seen  our  brown-ej'ed  darling, 
With  her  curls  of  burnished  gold  ? 

On  this  earth  there  ne'er  existed 
Such  a  cunning  two-year  old. 

Perfect  red  lips  scarce  concealing 

Such  a  tiny  row  of  pearls 
As  a  monarch  well  might  envy 

Her,  our  queen  of  baby  girls. 

Merry  little  madcap  Enid  ! 

First  a  smile  and  then  a  frown 
Flits  across  those  chubby  features, 

And  into  the  eyes  so  brown. 

Laughing  little  winsome  Enid  ! 

May  those  little  flying  feet, 
As  they  journey  o'er  life's  pathway, 

Ne'er  its  dark,  rough  places  meet. 

Other  love  may  turn  to  ashes  ; 

Older  hearts  may  soon  grow  cold  ; 
But  our  tenderest,  best  affection 

Ever  will  thy  life  enfold. 

Closer  still,  my  bonny  baby, 
Let  those  little  arms  entwine 

Round  me,  and  to  thee  most  truly 
Pledge  I,  dear,  this  heart  of  mine. 


SllUltam 

Wm.  Hale  was  born  in  Dover,  Jan.  18,  1856.    He  was  graduated  at  Brown  Uni 
versity,  Providence,  R.  I.,  in  1880. 


LIFE'S   SCULPTCTR. 

How  can  I  hope  with  these  poor  hands,  I  cry, 
To  cut  the  crystal  alabaster,  how  hope 
With  these  thin  trembling  palms,  with  arm  so  faint, 
To  chisel  from  the  massive  block  of  life 


708  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

A  figure  worth  the  while — much  more  a  saint, 
One  worthy  to  be  placed  within  its  niche 
Prepared,  amid  the  countless  groups  from  life 
In  Time's  vast  corridor?     "Patience,  dear  sculptor," 
A  low  voice  saith,  "by  long,  long  years  is  wrought 
The  beautj7  infinite  of  the  white  soul's  thought. 
With  our  strong  thoughtful  stroke  each  day  the  small 
Chips  fall,  to  leave,  when  thou  hast  won  thy  rest, 
When  golden  years  have  brought  thee  to  thy  goal, 
Instead  of  shapeless  stone,  a  beauteous  whole." 


TO  MY  RIVER,  THE  PISCATAQUA. 

I  see  thee  now  my  beautiful  river, 
I  see  thee  now  O  wood-loved  river, 

A-shining  under  the  setting  sun  ! 
I  see  thy  soft  bank's  golden  brown 
Where  the  sun-beams  love  to  settle  down 

And  linger  one  b}*  one. 

And  the  song  thou  singest  is  love  untold, 
And  the  smile  thou  givest  is  bright  as  gold ; 

Thou  fillest  my  grateful  soul  with  peace, 
And  the  short-lived  sweets  of  a  honeyed  }'outh 
Are  forgot  in  the  dream  of  a  purer  truth, — 

A  dream  that  ne'er  shall  cease. 

And  my  life  shall  nobler  and  purer  be 

That  its  youth  and  dreams  were  passed  by  thee, 

Bathed  bright  and  pure  in  th}r  sunlit  tide. 
Those  dear  lost  days  !  they  seem  but  now 
A  beautiful  promise,  a  holy  vow, 

As  o'er  the  waves  I  glide. 

On  the  breast  of  Life's  restless  river, 
Painting  a  fair  land  washed  b}*  a  river 

Where  soon,  forever  my  soul  shall  rest — 
After  a  little  waking  and  sleeping, 
After  a  little  smiling  and  weeping — 

With  those  I  love  the  best. 


ISfctoarlr  Sargent. 


C.  E.  Sargent  was  born  in  Pittsfleld,  November  8,  1856.  Most  of  his  early  life 
was  spent  on  a  small  farm  in  his  native  town.  He  was  thrown  upon  his  own  re 
sources  by  the  death  of  his  father  in  1872,  when  the  care  of  the  farm  was  left  t<> 
him  and  his  younger  brother.  He  abandoned  the  idea  of  a  liberal  education  and 
was  employed  in  a  shoe  factory  in  the  intervals  of  farm  work.  In  the  fall  of  Jb74 


CHARLES  EDWARD  SARGENT.  709 

he  took  the  course  of  instruction  at  the  New  York  Phrenological  Institute.  In 
1876-77  he  was  principal  teacher  in  the  Boston  Truant  School.  He  entered  Bates 
College  in  August,  1879,  and  graduated  in  1883.  As  a  student  he  exhibited  greatest 
excellence  in  the  Natural  Sciences,  Metaphysics  and  English  Literature  and  Com 
position.  During  his  course  he  took  three  prizes  for  excellence  in  Composition 
and  Debate.  For  the  year  1881-82  he  was  first  editor  of  the  Bates  Student.  In  his 
junior  year  he  began  the  composition  of  a  book,  entitled  "Our  Home,  or  the  Key  to 
a  Nobler  Life,"  which  he  completed  in  about  six  months  while  still  maintaining 
his  position  in  his  class.  This  book  has  been  honored  with  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Lucretia  E.  Garfleld.  It  is  published  by  W.  C.  King  • 
&  Company  of  Springfield,  Mass.  It  is  warmly  commended  by  good  critics,  anjl  •, 
seems  destined  to  make  its  author  favorably  known.  During  'his  college  course, 
Mr.  Sargent  wrote  numerous  poems,  one  of  which  was  published  in  the  College 
Song  book.  Several  years  ago  he  composed  a  poem  which  was  afterwards  set  to 
music  and  published  by  Prof.  Bipley  of  Boston,  and  sung  at  the  services  of 
memorial  day  in  that  city. 


IN  UNITS'  PLACE. 

I  know  not  from  what  beginning 

My  spirit  has  been  evolved, 
Nor  through  what  vast  mutations 

In  the  problems  God  has  solved. 
Yet  I  feel  I'm  not  a  cipher 

At  the  left  of  all  that's  wrought, 
Though  I  cannot  move  great  nations 

With  the  iron  hand  of  thought. 

Though  my  deeds  be  few  and  lowly, 

And  of  small  account  my  work, 
Hidden  germs  of  mighty  meaning 

In  each  little  deed  may  lurk. 
And  I  know  I  am  a  factor 

In  the  work  that  God  has  done, 
Though  I'm  but  a  star  that  twinkles 

Faint  beside  a  rising  sun. 

Human  deeds  we  cannot  measure, 

Those  we  count  so  grand  and  bold 
May  be  sounding  brass  in  heaven, 

While  the  little  ones  are  gold. 
If  I  cannot  stand  in  millions' 

Nor  the  thousands'  column  grace, 
Cheerfully  in  sweet  submission 

I  will  stand  in  units'  place. 


BUILDING  CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 

How  oft  in  childhood's  sunny  hours, 
While  lingering  'neath  its  rosy  bowers, 
We  gaze  upon  life's  sun  so  bright 
And  wish  him  at  meridian  height ! 


710  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

How  gay  the  thoughts  of  future  seem 
In  that  delicious  morning  dream  ! 
How  many  a  fairy  castle  there 
Is  built  in  unsubstantial  air  ! 

In  infancy's  bright  dream  of  youth, 
When  fancy  wears  the  garb  of  truth, 
We  deem  the  highest  t}*pe  of  joy 
The  freedom  of  the  reckless  boy. 
But  when  we  reach  the  long-sought  prize 
Behold  !  it  fades  before  our  eyes, 
And  all  its  promised  pleasures  rare 
Quick  vanish  in  the  empty  air. 

On  manhood's  far-off  mountain  brow 
We  gaze  upon  our  castle  now  ; 
Far-gleaming  from  its  tow'ring  height, 
Behold  Ambition's  beck'ning  light. 
The  path  to  wealth  that  must  be  ours 
Lies  over  downy  beds  of  flowers  ; 
We  heed  nor  crag,  nor  storm,  nor  sleet, 
But  onward  press  with  flying  feet. 

Proud  fame  unfurls  his  flaming  scroll 
And  bids  us  there  our  names  enroll ; 
We  hear,  with  quickened  veins  of  fire, 
The  utt'rance  of  the  statesman's  ire. 
We  listen,  with  enraptured  frame, 
To  hear  the  poet's  deathless  name  ; 
But  when  we  wake  and  gaze  around 
'Tis  midnight,  and  we  hear  no  sound. 

'Tis  but  delirium's  fitful  gleam 

That  tells  us  'twas  an  empty  dream  ; 

We  never  reach  our  castle  fair, 

To  walk  its  crystal  floors  of  air. 

No  more  we  strive  with  striving  men, 

But  turn  to  view  life's  morn  again  ; 

We  learn,  when  life's  dark  tempests  lower, 

Our  castle  was  in  childhood's  hour. 


THE  FRUITLESS  SEARCH. 

How  oft,  fair  Pleasure,  in  my  youth, 
I've  gazed  upon  thy  gaud}-  wing, 

And  lain  enraptured  in  thy  thrall 
To  hear  thy  siren  maidens  sing ; 


CHAELE8  ED  WAS D  8 AH  GENT.  711 

I've  sought  thee  in  the  bower  of  love, 

In  roses'  most  congenial  clime, 
Where  breathing  perfume  fills  the  air, 

And  music's  gentle  pulses  chime. 

I've  sought  thee  in  the  halls  of  mirth, 

Amid  the  mazes  of  the  waltz, 
Where  midnight  lamps  o'er  beauty  shone, 

Revealing  naught  of  human  faults  ; 
I've  sought  thee  mid  the  cit^y's  roar, 

On  that  deep,  surging  sea  of  strife, 
Whose  waves  at  great  cathedrals  break,1 

And  foam  with  crimson  crests  of  life. 

I've  chased  thee  through  ambitition's  hall, 

Where  weary  inmates  never  sleep, 
But  silently,  with  wasted  form, 

The  scholar's  lonely  vigils  keep. 
But  something  in  the  breast  of  man 

Cries  silence  !  In  the  roaring  mart, 
We  fly  from  pleasure's  gilded  hall 

With  weary  feet  and  aching  heart, 

Turn  back  to  childhood's  sinless  hour, 

When  care  to  us  was  but  a  name, 
And  furrows  deep  on  mother's  brow 

Were  mysteries  that  went  and  came. 
'Tis  then  on  contemplation's  wing 

That  years  and  power  and  manhood  flee, 
And,  with  our  hearts  subdued  and  soft, 

Leave  us  beside  our  mother's  knee. 


IN  THE  DARK  I'LL  FOLLOW  THEE. 

Lead  me  gently,  Father,  gently, 

For  'tis  dark,  I  cannot  see, 
And  this  pathway  o'er  the  mountain 

Seemeth  rough  and  steep  to  me  ; 
But  I  know  that  thou  art  gentle, 

And  will  lead  me  free  from  harm, 
So  I  lean  in  sweet  submission 

On  thy  strong  and  loving  arm. 

What  though  all's  in  darkness  shrouded, 
And  thy  face  I  cannot  see  ! 

Yet,  I  feel  thy  gentle  presence, 
In  the  dark  I'll  follow  thee. 


712  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  my  wayward  spirit  led  me 

From  the  tender  shepherd's  care, 
And  I  fled  from  kind  protection, 

To  the  mountains  wild  and  bare, 
Then  the  storm  with  rattling  thunder 

In  its  anger  burst  on  me, 
And  I  cried  with  trembling  terror 

"Father,  I  will  follow  thee." 

Then  I  sought  my  tender  shepherd, 

Through  the  darkness  of  the  storm, 
Guided  by  his  constant  calling, 

For  I  could  not  see  his  form. 
And  that  darkness  now  still  lingers, 

And  the  night  hangs  low  and  dim, 
Yet  I  hear  my  Shepherd  calling, 

In  the  dark  I'll  follow  him. 


OTutter 

Eev.  F.  C.  Pillsbury  was  born  in  West  Newbury,  Mass.,  April  19, 1857.  His  par 
ents  removed,  when  he  was  very  young,  to  Kingston.  His  uneventful  life  has  thus 
far  been  spent  mostly  at  his  father's  home  and  in  acquiring  an  education.  He  is  a 
preacher  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church. 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Above  yon  threat'ning  cloud 

That  makes  the  craggy  steeps  look  dim, 
Mid  lightnings  fierce  and  thunders  loud 

That  hurl  their  angr3r  spite  at  him, 
Mid  summer's  heat  and  winter's  snow, 
Counting  the  ages  as  they  come  and  go, 

Sits  the  king  of  New  Hampshire  hills. 

When  storms  upon  the  plain 
In  fury  break,  he  minds  it  not ; 

God  sings  to  him  in  wind  and  rain, 
And  all  his  hardships  are  forgot ; 

Unvexed  by  tempest  he  doth  rest 

As  one  in  sleep — so  still  his  might}'  breast, 
So  imperceptible  its  thrills. 

His  throne  is  built  so  high 

The  glittering  hosts  of  light  adore  ; 

The  bolts  of  heaven  he  doth  defy  ; 
Eager,  his  sceptre  o'er  and  o'er 


FEED  CUTTER  PILLSBURY.  713 

The  sunbeams  kiss  ;  his  throne  the  place 
Of  bright  and  glittering  pearls,  the  rarest  grace 
Alike  of  morn  and  paradise. 

Tis  there  Queen  Vesper  goes 

To  shut  the  golden  gates  of  day, 
And  give  the  weary  world  repose. 

While  yet  the  sun.  goes  on  his  way, 
Glad  in  his  mighty  strength,  I  ween  ; 
And  he  carries  a  robe  of  living  green 

For  nature's  gayest  festal  guise. 


THE  ECLIPSE. 

(The  «un  was  eclipsed  at  its  rising  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  1880.) 

Above  the  fairy  towers  of  the  deep, 
Whose  snowy  domes  at  earl}-  morn  appear, 
The  sun  hath  veiled  his  radiant  brow 
With  sackcloth, for  the  dying  year. 

Throughout  the  systems  of  the  universe, 
Amid  the  rolling  of  the  myriad  spheres, 
Doth  any,  like  our  radiant  sun, 
Lament  the  going  of  the  years  ? 

But  briefly  he  observes  the  solemn  deed, 
The  dreary  mantle  falls  from  off  his  face  ; 
Another  year  is  at  the  door, 
Him  he  receives  with  festal  grace. 

O  grieved  heart,  take  heed  of  this,  I  praj-, 
O'er  all  the  past,  forget  thy  fruitless  tears, 
The  promise  of  thy  future  life 
Demands  not  sackcloth  for  past  years. 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

The  heat  of  day  is  over,  and  the  eventide 
Broods,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er  the  deep 

And  ever  flowing  ocean  far  and  wide  ; 

The  tossing  waves  have  sighed  themselves  to  sleep, 

And  now,  with  cadence  soft  and  low, 

Forbear  to  break  and  gently  flow. 


7 1 4  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


The  argosies  of  cloud-land,  moored  along  the  west, 
Are  riding  leisure!}-  in  heaven's  bay, 

Earth,  sea  and  sky  are  all  at  rest — 
The  benediction  of  a  perfect  day, 

The  moon,  reflected  by  my  side, 

Sends  quivering  glances  from  the  tide. 

Where  sea  and  sky  are  wedded  in  a  purple  mist, 
The  white  sea  gulls  glide  past  the  Hampton  reef; 

So.  with  a  longing  I  cannot  resist, 

My  thoughts  dart  out  and  find  a  glad  relief. 

Like  white  sails  on  the  shadowy  sea, 

Dear  memories  float  back  to  me. 

0  breath  of  balm  !  I  feel  thy  witchery,  thy  power  ; 
O  towering  cliff  beside  the  summer  sea, 

1  lived  a  long,  sweet  life  in  one  short  hour, 

On  thy  great  heart  reposed,  at  rest  with  thee ; 
I'll  seek  again  tlry  sunset  skies, 
Thy  twilight  hour,  thy  paradise. 


Kelsta 

Miss  Partridge  is  a  daughter  of  Rev.  S.  H.  Partridge,  who  is  represented  in  this 
volume.  She  was  born  in  Lebanon,  Maine,  Sept.  15, 1S57.  She  has  written  over  the 
nom  deplume  of  "Nelsia  Bird." 


DRIFTING. 

Just  the  same  as  ever,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 
With  summer  flowers  and  sunshine  and  winter's  drifting  snow. 
Just  the  same  as  ever,  the  spring-time  bluebirds  call ; 
And  glorious  leaves  in  autumn  with  radiant  colors  fall. 

Just  the  same  as  ever,  the  twinkling  stars  shine  on  ; 

The  sun  returns  each  morning  to  wake  the  coming  dawn. 

Just  the  same  as  ever,  the  world  rolls  on  its  way, 

Nor  heeds  our  bitter  grieving  for  friends  that  might  not  stay. 

Just  the  same  as  ever,  the  sweet  smiles  lead  a  sigh, 
And  ripple  over  chasms  where  hopes  and  treasures  lie. 
Just  the  same  as  ever?  No,  not  the  same  to  me  ; 
The  sun  his  chariot  driving  draws  near  the  crystal  sea. 

No,  not  the  same  as  ever,  the  tinted  leaves  float  down, 
They  strew  my  pathway  nearer  the  hand  that  holds  the  crown. 
No,  not  the  same  as  ever, — sun,  moon,  and  stars  must  pale 
Before  the  coming  splendor  that  hides  behind  the  veil. 


ABBIE  NEL8IA  PAETEIDGE,  715 

HUMAN  FACES. 

Oh  !  human  faces,  with  placid  smiles 

That  ripple  the  surface  o'er, 
You  tell  as  little  of  life  beneath, 

As  the  waves  that  wash  the  shore. 

Some  maiden  heart  with  emotion  thrills 

At  the  low  sweet  voice  of  love  ; 
The  world  intrudes — and  the  face  she  lifts, 

Is  calm  as  the  sky  above. 

Some  reckless  one,  with  sin-dyed  heart, 
Comes  forth  from  the  depths  of  shame, 

And  smiles  on  the  world,  as  cool  and  calm, 
As  one  with  an  honored  name. 

An  aching  heart,  with  anguish  riven, 

That  has  bowed  in  secret  prayer, 
Comes  out  to  the  world  with  beaming  eyes, 

And  a  face  serene  and  fair. 

The  inward  struggles  with  pride  and  want, 

And  the  sins  that  hidden  lie 
Leave  no  more  trace,  on  the  outward  face, 

Than  last  week's  storm  on  the  sky. 

* 

It  is  well  the  curious  e}-es  see  naught 

But  the  face  of  seeming  light, 
While  carefully  hid,  'neath  the  heart's  deep  lid, 

Lie  covered  the  sins  of  night. 


HIDDEN  WORTH. 

Under  the  ice,  so  cold  and  chill, 
Floweth  the  water,  pure  and  still  ; 
Under  the  snow-drifts,  deep  and  white, 
Violets  wait  for  spring-time  light. 
Deep  in  the  rugged  mountain's  core, 
Lieth  the  glittering  golden  ore  ; 
Under  the  rough  and  swelling  tide, 
Beautiful  gems  of  ocean  hide. 

Little  we  think,  under  ice  so  chill, 
Waters  are  flowing,  pure  and  still ; 
Less  do  we  think,  in  mountains  cold, 
Bright  are  the  rocks  with  shining  gold. 


716  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Summer  and  sunshine  bring  to  light 
Waters  that  sparkle  pure  and  bright ; 
Courage  and  labor  find  the  way 
Down  where  the  gold  and  jewels  lay. 

Under  the  ice  of  careless  scorn, 
Under  the  snow  of  envy  born, 
Throbbeth  the  hearts  we  cannot  know,- 
Only  as  love  shall  melt  the  snow. 
Under  our  feet  the  waters  glide, 
Mountains  of  wealth  are  at  our  side  ; 
Ours  be  the  joy  the  prize  to  bring, 
Others  the  hollow  praise  may  sing. 


.  itertiett. 


W.  A.  Bartlett  of  Hanover,  is  the  son  of  Samuel  C.  Bartlett,  President  of  Dart 
mouth  College.  He  was  born  in  Chicago,  111.,  Feb.  17, 1858.  He  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth  in  1882. 


MCE8TITIA. 

Hast  oft  at  eventide  sat  weary  down 

To  rest,  heart-sick  and  tired  of  thy  life  ?    . 

With  head  thrown  back  upon  thy  knitted  hands 

Watched  listless  the  last  gleam  of  fading  light? 

And  as  the  shadows  deepened,  blotting  out 

The  glorious  view  of  skies  that  lately  shone 

Transcendent,  with  a  gloiy  not  their  own, 

Didst  think  it  did  portray  with  startling  truth 

The  darkening  of  thy  landscape  once  so  bright? 

And  sighed — a  heavy  sigh — to  think  forsooth 

The  world  had  grown  for  thee  a  darksome  night? 

Cheer  up  faint  heart,  perhaps  this  night's  for  rest ; 

Thy  mental  gloom  must  wait  thy  mental  sun. 

The  spring  at  dark  is  but  a  muddy  stream 

For  eyes  which  dimby  see  it  in  its  course  ; 

While  pierced  by  heaven's  ray  it  is  a  gem 

Which  sparkles  in  its  bed  of  golden  sand. 

Thus,  when  our  vision's  dim  with  doubts  and  fears, 

The  trifling  objects  of  our  nearer  view 

Assume  strange  shapes  like  ships  which  sail  through  fog, 

And  glide  like  phantoms  seemingly  in  air. 

Throw  off  thy  melancholy — have  it  gone, 

And  let  thy  fettered  spirit  spread  its  wings. 

Then  swell  the  orchestral  music  of  the  soul 


WILLIAM  A.  BARTLETT.  717 

In  one  grand  symphony  almost  divine, 

Which  rising,  swelling,  bursts  so  wondrous  sweet 

That —  sad  heart,  dost  thy  morn  begin  to  glow  ? 


CEDIPUS. 

CEdipus,  thou  son  of  Laius, 
When  exposed  on  Mount  Cithaeron 
With  thy  feet  all  pierced  and  bleeding, 
In  thine  infancy  so  helpless  ; 
Did  no  vision  of  the  future, 
Did  no  oracle  prophetic 
Tell  thee  that  thy  life  was  fated 
To  be  one  continued  crime? 

CEdipus,  thou  son  of  Laius, 
If  the  disembodied  spirit 
Ever  has  the  recollection 
Of  the  deeds  done  in  the  bod}' — 
Can  it  be  thou'rt  in  Elysium  ; 
Can  there  be  one  consolation 
In  the  haunting,  baleful  memory 
That  thou  art  a  patricide  ? 

CEdipus,  thou  son  of  Laius, 
Did  an  obolus  admit  thee 
To  Tartarean  realms  of  sorrow  ? 
Would  the  boatman  take  thee  over 
Laden  with  a  sin  so  fearful — 
Laden  with  the  curse  of  Nature, 
In  that  wicked,  shameful  union 
When  Jocasta  was  thy  bride  ? 

Wretched  one,  is  Stygian  darkness 
Black  enough  that  it  can  cover 
Visions  that  are  most  appalling, — 
Of  a  hanging  struggling  mother 
With  her  features  so  distorted, 
Who  in  bitter  self-abasement, 
Who  in  sorrow  overwhelming 
Thus  became  a  suicide? 

Can  it  be  Lethean  waters 

Drown  those  wild  cries  so  heart-rending 

Of  thy  faithful,  loving  sister 

Whom  they  bore,  despairing,  shrieking, 


718  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

To  a  living  inhumation  ; 
To  a  death  too  agonizing 
In  its  dismal,  hopeless  horror 
For  the  fair  Antigone. 

CEdipus,  pray  thou  most  humbly 
For  complete  annihilation, 
Or  for  sleep  profound,  eternal, 

And  a  sleep  from  dreams  set  free. 
Lest  these  unrelenting  phantoms, 
Lest  these  endless  mad'ning  visions 
Haunt  thy  shades  like  horrid  spirits 

Frenzied  in  their  vengeful  glee. 
Giving  neither  sleep  nor  madness  ; 
Giving  Memory  no  oblivion 
To  remove  the  recollection 

Through  a  dread  eternity. 


Mrs.  Osgood,  a  daughter  of  Bev.  Lyman  White,  was  born  In  Eastern,  Mas*.,  Mar 
fi,  1868.  Her  childhood  was  spent  in  the  pleasant  hill-town  of  Acworth.  In  the  fail 
of  1872,  her  family  having  removed  to  Claremont,  she  entered  the  Stevens  High 
School,  followed  its  course  of  study  for  five  years,  and  graduated  with  honors. 
Shortly  after  this,  her  first  poetical  attempts  appeared  in  local  papers,  and  furrlu-r 
efforts  were  agreeably  recognized  by  the  Youth's  Companion,  to  which  she  is  now 
iin  occasional  contributor. 


THE  BACHELOR'S  PROPOSAL. 

Bachelor  Button  stood  by  the  wall, 

Under  an  apple-tree  shady  ; 
He  nodded  across  the  garden  bed 

To  pretty  Miss  Ragged  Lady. 

"Fair  lad}',"  said  he,  "for  man}-  a  day 
I've  studied  your  numerous  graces 

With  so  much  zeal  that  I've  come  to  feel 
That  yours  is  the  sweetest  of  faces  ! 

"Some  nimble  fingers  I  greatly  need 
To  keep  my  buttons  in  order, 

And  you  need  some  one  to  buy  a  dress 
With  a  little  less  tattered  border. 

"So  now  if  you'll  come  and  live  with  me, 
And  sew  on  my  buttons  neatly, 

From  bonnet  to  slipper  I'll  dress  you  out 
Most  elegantly  and  completely  !" 


C ABE  IE  WHITE  OSGOOD.  719 

Said  Ragged  Lady,  "'Tis  fine  to  hear 

You  talk  about  pretty  faces  ! 
A  judge  of  beauty  you  are  indeed 

Who  can't  tell  rags  from  laces  ! 

"My  delicate  flounces  are  deftly  made, 

And  I  don't  care  to  renew  them, 
But  if  you  wish  your  buttons  sewed  on, 

Just  find  some  other  to  do  them  !" 

Years  have  passed  since  this  offer  was  made 

Under  the  apple-tree  shady, 
But  he  is  Bachelor  Button  still, 

And  she  is  a  Ragged  Lady  ! 


THROWING  KISSES. 

Three  gold  buttons  on  each  small  shoe, 
Crimson  stockings  and  apron  blue, 
Are  these  the  daintiest  part  of  you  ? 

Saxon  Bertha,  with  eyes  that  look 
Like  blue  fringed  gentians  in  their  nook 
Under  the  trees  by  the  pasture  brook. 

Saxon  Bertha,  so  white  and  pink, 
Surely  some  butterfly  might  think, 
"Here  is  honey  for  me  to  drink  !" 

Bertha  "bright,"  at  the  window  pane, 
Through  the  sunshine  and  through  the  rain 
Kisses  you  throw  again  and  again. 

All  are  equal,  in  jour  belief, 

Rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief, 

Doctor,  lawyer  or  Indian  chief." 

Shouting  school-bo}',  roguish  and  rude, 
Fair  little  maiden  in  scarlet  hood, 
Ragged  workman,  sawing  the  wood. 

Shower  your  kisses  !  Happy  are  you  ! 
Happier  far  than  if  you  knew 
Good  from  evil  and  false  from  true. 

Scatter  with  loving  finger-tips 

These  blossoms  of  your  innocent  lips, 

Till  into  each  heart  some  sweetness  slips. 


720  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

EVENTIDE. 

"I  will  both  lay  me  down  in  peace,  and  sleep." 

Secure  I  rest,  with  nought  to  fear, 
For  in  the  stillness  I  can  hear 
The  foot-falls  of  thine  angels  near, 
As  through  the  night  they  swiftly  press 
To  guard  the  couch  which  thou  dost  bless. 
In  vain  the  darkness  strives  to  vail 
Their  shining  faces,  shadows  quail 
Before  the  radiance  of  their  eyes 
And  Hespers  in  the  gloom  arise. 

I  catch  the  music  of  their  tone 
Like  voice  of  trumpets  softly  blown, 
Or  like  the  laughing  notes  that  trip 
So  lightly  from  the  fountain's  lip. 
Anon  the  cadence  falls  and  swells 
Like  echoed  chime  of  distant  bells  ; 
No  grief  can  pass,  nor  evil  things, 
Within  the  circle  of  their  wings. 

Though  never  more  the  golden  tide 
Of  morning,  up  my  chamber-side 
Creeping  with  gentle  flow,  should  break 
Its  ripples  at  my  lids,  and  make 
My  stranded  senses  buoyant  rise 
Ready  for  day's  activities, 
I  am  content,  and  trust  to  be 
In  happier  waking  still  with  thee. 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  my  soul  dost  keep 
Who  givest  thy  beloved  sleep. 


A  WAIF. 

Among  my  flowers,  one  winter  morn 
When  field  and  wood  were  hoary, 

Smiling  to  greet  the  tardy  dawn, 
I  found  a  morning-glory. 

Behind  an  amaranth's  crimson  flame 
The  modest  vine  had  hidden, 

Quietly  climbing  to  the  light 
And  blossoming  unbidden. 

Like  some  dear,  unexpected  friend 
I  welcomed  the  bright  stranger, 


CAEEIE  WHITE  OSKOOD.  721 

Who,  leaning  toward  the  frosty  pane 
Without  a  dream  of  danger, 

Strove  'gainst  its  chill  to  lay  her  face 

And  tell  her  winsome  story 
Of  bygone  summer's  rose-sweet  days, 

Of  purple  hill-tops'  glory,         t 

Of  brooks  that  lull  the  languid  ferns, 

Of  fields  with  fire-flies  spangled, 
Of  bobolink's  unruly  tune 

Among  the  sunbeams  tangled. 

But  not  of  June  alone  she  told, 

Seeking  some  further  token, 
This  word  at  her  pure  lips  I  found 

In  softest  odors  spoken. 

That  oft  the  drearest  hour  may  bring 

Some  bright,  unlooked-for  blessing ; 
That  toward  the  iciest  heart  some  love 

May  lean  with  touch  caressing. 

No  life  so  frost-bound,  so  forlorn, 

But  has  one  morning-glory 
To  blossom  in  its  winter  day, 

When  field  and  wood  are  hoarj*. 


TRIFLING. 

Dora  on  a  moss-bank  sits, 

Where  all  day  the  sunbeams  dally, 
Where  the  speckled  sparrow  flits, 

And  a  brooklet  musically 
Slips  from  shadow  into  shadow,' 

Between  willows  bending  over, 

Among  purple  beds  of  clover 
And  red  lilies  of  the  meadow. 

Happy  Dora  sits  and  sings 

Odd  sweet  notes  the  birds  have  taught  her, 
To  the  naiad  ferns  that  fling 

Their  green  tresses  on  the  water, 
Leaning  down  to  clasp  their  doubles, 

That  look  up  with  smiling  faces 

From  their  sunlit,  crystal  places 
Underneath  the  sliding  bubbles. 


722  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

And  the  brooklet  makes  reply 
With  a  soft,  Italian  flowing 

Of  sweet  sounds,  now  clear,  now  shy, 
All  its  dimples  to  her  showing ; 

At  her  bare,  pink  feet  it  lingers, 
Laughs  aloud  with  merry  tinkles, 
Glaftices  up  with  roguish  twinkles, 
t  Taps  the  bank  with  gleesome  fingers. 


'Samuel 

Samuel  W.  Foss  was  born  in  Candia,  June  19, 1858.  He  fitted  for  College  at  Ports 
mouth  High  School  and  at  Tilton  Conference  Seminary.  He  graduated  at  Hro\vn 
University  in  1882,  on  which  occasion  he  was  class  poet.  His  home  is  in  Portsmouth. 


THE  PERFECT  SONG. 

Amid  the  traffic  of  the  throng 
Methought  I  heard  the  perfect  song, 
I  listened  to  the  sweet  refrain 
Without  a  discord  in  the  strain. 

I  listened  and  it  came  again 
As  if  an  angel  sang  to  men, 
As  if  from  twilight  deeps  had  rung 
The  accents  of  a  seraph  tongue. 

By  outward  sense  I  could  not  hear, 
But  on  the  listening  spirit  ear 
It  fell  as  soft  as  early  snow 
Falls  on  the  autumn  fields  below. 

The  glad  strain  ceased — I  hastened  then 
To  sing  the  song  to  careless  men  ; 
Alas  !  I  found  my  words  were  dead, 
The  rapture  of  the  song  had  fled. 


THE  BROOK  AND  THE  PINE. 

The  spirit  that  sings  in  the  laughing  brook 
And  has  sung  since  the  world  began 
Is  gay  as  the  light  of  a  maiden's  look 
And  glad — as  the  heart  of  man. 

The  spirit  that  sighs  in  the  moaning  pine 
And  has  sighed  since  the  world  began 
Is  gloomy  as  Night  when  the  stars  do  not  shine 
And  sad — as  the  heart  of  man. 


ANNE  PAEMELEE.  733 


I  lay  'neath  the  pine  on  the  brink  of  the  brook, 
And  their  songs  mingled  o'er  me  in  air, 
One  glad  as  the  tones  from  an  oread's  nook, 
One  heav}7  with   sobs  of  despair. 

The  sad  and  the  glad  mingled  into  one  strain, 
But  made  no  dissonant  strife  ; 
As  varying  tolies  of  pleasure  and  pain 
Mingle  into  the  music  of  life. 

And  I  said,  "Lo,  the  song  of  the  heart  of  man, 
The  song  of  gloom  and  of  glee, 
The  song  that  has  been  since  the  world  began, 
The  song  that  ever  shall  be." 


Enne 


Anne  Parmelce  is  a  native  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.(  where  her  parents,  Joseph  W.,  iinii 
i'rauces  A.  Parmelee,  resided  for  many  years.  She  was  born  June  1,  I860,  and  has 
been  carefully  reared  and  educated,  first  at  the  Packer  Institute,  and  afterward  at 
Miss  Whitcomb's  Seminary  on  the  Heights  in  that  City.  She  hds  written  some 
pleasant  pieces  in  prose  and  verse,  and  from  the  latter  we  have  selected  with  others 
for  this  volume  her  Commencement  Exercise  as  a  member  of  the  Art  Class  in  Miss 
Whitcomb's  school.  Her  home  is  in  Newport. 


SUNSET. 

The  sun  sinks  slowly  to  its  rest, 

While  on  the  crest 

Of  3'onder  hill  the  firs  point  toward  the  radiant  sky. 
Through  golden  glory  in  the  west, 

To  quiet  nest, 
The  birds,  fatigued  with  the  long,  beauteous  day,  now  fly 

See !  every  eye-entrancing  shade, 

Now  glow,  then  fade — 

From  richest  crimson,  to  the  faintest,  loveliest  rose. 
Colors  like  these,  on  canvas  laid, 

Are  oft  displayed, 
But  not  in  hues  divine  as  nature  glows. 

"VVe  stay  and  gaze  until  the  night, 

With  shadowy  light, 

Lays  its  cool  spell  o'er  all  the  dewy  vale  and  hill ; 
The  lovely  rose  tints,  put  to  flight, 

Fade  from  our  sight, 
Till  all  the  scene  is  calm  and  mystical  and  still. 


724  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

HAMMOCK  REVERIE. 

Swinging  in  the  hammock 

'Neath  the  apple  trees, 
Hearing  happy  birds  above 

Sing  sweet  melodies, 
Watching  soft  white  clouds  that  pass 

O'er  the  summer  sky,—' 
Oh  the  sweet,  sweet  nothingness, 

'Twixt  heaven  and  earth  to  lie, 
And  ponder,  oh  !  so  lazily, 

While  swinging  through  the  air, 
O'er  all  the  tender  mystery 

Of  heaven  and  earth  so  fair. 


SONNET  TO  LAKE  SUNAPEE. 

Fair  Sunapee  !  whose  silver  sheen  doth  lie 

Beneath  the  tender  radiance  of  the  moon  ; 

In  the  still  night  that  glides  away  so  soon, 

So  fleetly,  that  it  causes  one  to  sigh, 

To  know  such  beauty  exquisite  must  die 

In  stillness,  broken  only  by  the  toon 

That  on  thy  shores  doth  cry  in  doleful  tune, 

Or  swiftly  o'er  thy  glittering  waters  fly  ; 

We  float  among  the  stars  deep  mirrored  here, 

With  moonlight's  niystic  splendor  all  around, 

While  fleeting  echoes  from  the  darkling  shore 

Return  the  merrj*  laugh  and  plash  of  oar  ; 

And  through  the  shadows  of  the  wood  profound 

The  disk  of  the  fair  evening  star  seems  near. 


RAPHAEL  AND  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

As  when  a  star  in  heaven,  just  ceased  to  be, 
Gone,  and  its  exit  veiled  in  mj'stery, 
Still  sends  to  earth  a  stead}',  beaming  light 
That  never  falters,  never  grows  less  bright ; 

So  through  the  mighty  centuries  since  their  birth 
The  radiance  of  their  genius  comes  to  earth, 
Filling  the  hearts  and  souls  of  those  who  gaze 
Upon  their  works  divine,  with  mute  amaze. 

In  Raphael  Sanzio,  we  see  combined 

All  beauteous  qualities  of  heart  and  mind  ; 


ANNE  PAEMELEE.  725 


In  spiritual  forms  excelled  by  none, 
In  grandeur,  by  great  Angelo  alone. 

Madonna  di  San  Sisto ! — what  could  be 
More  lovely,  purely  beautiful  than  she? 
With  tender,  steadfast  eyes,  that  seem  to  see 
Far  toward  the  vast  unsolved  eternity. 

And  then,  that  grand  transfiguration  scene, 
In  which  Christ's  followers,  with  humble  mien, 
Their  faces  bow'd  before  the  glorious  One, 
The  radiance  of  whose  brow  outshone  the  sun. 

In  scenes  of  beauty,  Raphael  found  delight, 
The  other  in  portraying  strength  and  might ; 
Raphael  the  milder,  best  loved  of  the  two, 
But  Angelo,  firm,  rugged,  strong  and  true. 

'Tis  said  among  the  seven  famed  hills  of  Rome 
Another  hill  he  raised, — Saint  Peter's  dome, 
Which  still  in  the  Eternal  City  stands, 
A  witness  to  the  power  of  mortal  hands. 

Beneath  his  stern  imperious  mien  there  glowed 
A  depth  of  power  and  fire  that  ceaseless  flowed, 
And  which  into  his  wondrous  works  he  threw 
With  skill  that  forces  our  astonished  view. 

<• 

There,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Medicis, 
Four  grandly  solemn  figures  we  may  see, — 
Morning  and  Evening,  also  Day  and  Night, 
Colossal  works  wrought  by  this  man  of  might. 

The  Sistine  chapel,  with  its  vaulted  roof, 
Is  of  his  genius  yet  another  proof, 
Illumined  by  soft  tints  of  beauty  rare, 
Shadowed  by  tones  of  terror  and  despair. 

And  we  may  thank  that  wise  all-seeing  Power, 
Who,  blessing  us  though  creatures  of  an  hour, 
Saw  fit  his  servants  many  years  ago, 
With  true  enduring  talent  to  endow ; 

That  through  them  and  their  priceless  works  of  art 
We  might  grow  nobler  and  more  pure  of  heart. 
Immortal  genius  to  these  men  was  given, 
To  draw  our  aspirations  nearer  heaven. 


726  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

3Emma  OTfjatrtourne 

Mrs.  Wood  is  a  native  of  South  Berwick,  Maine,  born  Jan.  5, 1859.  She  has  spent 
most  of  her  life  thus  far  in  Flushing,  Long  Island.  She  completed  a  three  years' 
<•our.sc  of  study  at  Abbott  Academy,  Andover,  Mass.  In  1881  she  became  the  \vit'f 
of  Rcv.'Samuel  G.  Wood.  They  came  to  New  Ipswich  where  they  still  reside. 


THE  DAISY. 

All  flowers  were  fair,  and  }'et  a  meadow-sprite 

Approached  her  queen  on  a  mid-summer  night. 

Her  court  she  held  beneath  a  mossy  stone 

All  hollowed  out  by  fairy  art  alone. 

'Twas  roofed  with  gems  from  earth-elves'  hoarded  store, 

And  velvet  lichens  carpeted  the  floor. 

The  throne  a  single  pearl,  whose  lustrous  white 

Flashed,  trembled,  glimmered  in  the  changing  light. 

Thither  the  sprite  with  joyful  footsteps  came 

To  answer  at  the  calling  of  her  name. 

"And  what  wouldst  thou,  O  sprite  of  yonder  mead? 

What  is  thy  wish  ?   What  is  thy  greatest  need  ?" 

Then  humbly  bowing:  ''Dearest  queen,  'tis  thine 

To  grant  this  one  request  to  me  and  mine. 

The  flow'rets  which  thy  majesty  hast  sent 

Upon  this  earth,  to  add  to  our  content, 

Are  beautiful,  and  much  we  prize  the  thought 

That  gave  them  us,  unasked  for  and  unsought. 

And  3'et  this  thing  I  ask ;  that  there  may  be 

One  more,  to  represent  chaste  modesty.  •" 

Its  robe  to  be  of  fairest,  purest  white  ; 

Its  heart  of  gold  ;  its  presence  as  the  light." 

It  shall  be  thine.     Rejoicing  go  thy  way, 

And  thou  shalt  call  its  name  the  £3*6  of  Day." 

Lo !  on  the  morrow,  midst  the  clover  sweet 

A  flower  first  looked  to  heaven,  new-made,  complete, 

Arrayed  in  white,  its  heart  of  beaten  gold, 

E'en  as  her  wish  the  meadow-sprite  had  told. 

Then  songs  of  joy  rose  in  the  fragrant  air, 

Songs  of  the  E}Te  of  Day,  so  fresh  and  fair. 

Those  days  ai-e  past,  and  still  the  sons  of  men 

Proclaim  the  Daisy's  praise  as  sprites  did  then. 


"GOOD-BY,  PAPA." 

That  little  maid?   Well,  yes  ;  you  see 
She  is  the  light  of  life  to  me  ; 
Her  mother's  very  image,  sir, 


LOTTA  BLANCHE  SMITH.  727 

So  natural-like  I  cling  to  her. 

A  little  one,  I  know — not  strong ; 

But  still  I  pray  God  spare  her  long. 

• 

When  I  leave  home  at  early  day, 

I  hear  her  voice  far  on  the  way 

Calling,  "Good-by !   My  love,  you  know, 

Is  yours,  Papa,  where'er  you  go." 

And  do  you  wonder,  sir,  that  I 

Work  better  for  my  child's  good-by  ? 

All?  Yes.     My  wife  and  little  son 
Are  dead.     I  have  no  other  one 
On  earth,  but  that  dear  child  of  eight 
You  saw  beside  my  cottage  gate. 
God  grant  the  day  afar  may  be 
That  brings  her  last  good-by  to  me. 


ILotta  Manrfje  g>mitf). 


Lotta  B.  Smith  was  born  in  Keene,  Api-il  20, 1859.  In  1860  her  parents  removed' 
to  Springfield,  Vt.  When  seven  years  of  age  she  met  with  a  painful  accident,  im 
pairing  the  spine  and  rendering  her  a  helpless  invalid. 


MY  LOVE. 

Sad  j£olian  music  by  summer  winds  sung, 
Thro'  the  green-curtained  pine-boughs,  with  crisp  needles  hung, 
That  breathe  their  low  strains  from  the  azure  hued  skies, 
Are  not  sadder  to  me  than  my  love's  murmured  sighs. 

The  sun  that  at  daybreak,  with  gold-glinted  rays, 
Bursts  forth  from  the  cloudlets  of  feathery  haze, 
And  lights  with  his  glory  this  world  full  of  guile 
Is  not  brighter  to  me  than  my  love's  sunny  smile. 

The  rain-drops  refresh  the  pale  violet's  blue, 
And  with  glistening  gems  their  sweet  faces  bestrew 
In  Aurora's  bright  dawn,  yet  those  crystal  drops  clear 
Do  not  glisten  for  me,  like  my  love's  pearly  tear. 

The  crimson  that  lurks  in  the  heart  of  the  rose, 
Or  the  flame  tints  of  twilight  the  western  sky  glows, 
In  the  lingering  sunset,  with  ruddy-warm  flush, 
Can  ne'er  warm  my  heart,  like  my  love's  rosy  blush. 


728  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

(Efjarles  ftSJfteeler  OTott. 

Charles  W.  Colt  was  born  in  Concord,  January  13, 1861.  He  was  fitted  for  col- 
lege  at  St.  Paul's  School  in  his  native  city,  and  in  1883  was  graduated  at  Trinity 
College,  upon  which  occasion  he  was  chosen  class  poet.  In  the  autumn  of  that 
year  he  entered  the  General  Theological  Seminary  in  New  York.  At  the  early  aj.r<" 
of  seven  years  he  visited  parts  of  Scotland,  England,  France  and  Belgium.  He 
has  been  author  of  several  poems  which  have  been  published  iu  the  Granite 
and  other  periodicals.  • 


TAY  BRIDGE. 

The  morning  bright  bathed  with  its  light 

The  verdant  banks  of  Tay  ; 
The  twittering  swallows  skimmed  along 

The  waters,  in  their  play  ; 
The  while,  a  Scottish  wanderer  I 

To  Tayport  bent  my  way. 

I  saw  the  bridge,  as  from  the  ridge 

I  looked  the  waters  o'er  ; 
A  mighty  work  it  seemed  to  me, 

That  stretched  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
But  in  the  midst  there  was  a  gap 

That  puzzled  me  full  sore. 

And,  as  I  stood  and  pondered  thus, 

An  ancient  Scot  drew  near, 
And  him  I  asked  to  solve  my  doubts ; 

But  seemed  he  not  to  hear ; 
For  a  little  space  he  hid  his  face, 

Then  wiped  away  a  tear. 

"Didst  ask,"  quoth  he,  "guid  sir,  the-cause 

The  brigg  is  trod  nae  mair  ? 
Aweel,  it  is  a  direfu'  tale, 

That  pierces  me  right  sair  ; 
For  'twas  on  that  night,  in  awfu'  plight, 

My  Geordie  perished  there  ! 

"Puir  laddie  !  He  did  little  ken 
•     Wha'  evil  wad  betide  ! 
For  he  was  comin'  ha  me  that  day, — 

He  and  his  winsome  bride. 
But  a  cruel  wraith  o'ertook  them  baith ; 

Thegither  there  they  died. 

"That  lee-lang  day  the  storm  held  sway  ; 
The  rain  and  sleet  fell  fast ; 


CHARLES  WHEELER  COIT.  729 

The  wind,  it  blawed  a  hurricane  ; 

Oil  shore  the  waves  were  cast ; 
And  ever  o'er  our  heads,  the  clouds 

Were  sailing  swiftly  past. 

"The  moon,  at  night,  shone  cauld  and  bright 

On  yon  grey,  massive  pile  ; 
The  eager  waters  foamed  beneath, 

Wi*  grim  and  ghastly  smile  ; 
And  the  Edinboro'  train  rolled  on 

Its  slaw-decreasing  mile. 

'  'I  watched  it,  as  it  crept  alang ; 

I  see'd  its  lanterns  glare  ; 
I  thought  o'  Geordie  and  his  lass  ; 

I  ken't  they  wad  be  there  ; 
I  heard  the  gale  ;  my  cheek  grew  pale  ; 

I  prayed  an  earnest  prayer. 

"Slaw,  as  wi'  pain,  rolled  on  the  train, 

And  left  the  southern  shore  ; 
It  scarce  had  reached  the  centre  span, 

When,  wi'  the  thunder's  roar, 
There  cam  fu'  fast  a  mighty  blast, 

That  swept  the  river  o'er. 

"It  struck  the  brigg  wi'  fearfu'  strength  ! 

Waes  me  !  The  unco'  sight ! 
There  straight  uprose  high  in  the  air 

A  flash  o'  lurid  light. 
Then  the  waters  quenched  the  yellow  flames, 

And  a'  again  was  night. 

"Oh  lang  I  waited,  but  in  vain : 

My  bairns  did  ne'er  arrive. 
The  moon  shone  through  the  rifted  clouds  ; 

I  see'd  the  waters  strive 
Wi'  the  ruined  heap,  that  filled  the  deep. 

Nae  soul  was  left  alive  !" 

His  tale  was  told.     The  Scotchman  old 

To  hide  his  grief  was  fain ; 
He  turned  away  in  silent  mood, 

And  left  the  heathy  plain. 
With  moistened  eye,  I  watched  him  go, 

And  longed  to  soothe  his  pain. 

I've  traversed  oft  old  Scotland's  braes  ; 
Full  well  her  shores  I  know ; 


730  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIBE. 

From  highland  lochs  to  lowland  meads, 
Where  Tweed  and  Solway  flow  ; 

But  I  never  heard,  in  all  my  walks, 
So  sad  a  tale  of  woe. 


Willis 


Geo.  W.  Patterson,  a  son  of  Hon.  James  W.  Patterson,  is  a  native  of  Hanover. 
He  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1881,  and  became  a  lawyer. 


A  HYMN. 

Let  me  love  Thee,  God,  and  be 
Bound  in  sweetness  unto  Thee. 
Gently  let  my  spirit  pray, 
Gently,  God,  to  Thee  alway. 

Faithful  let  me  be  to  Thee, 
God  of  mercy — loving  me. 
Let  my  heart  and  soul  and  mind, 
Yearning  for  Thee,  yearn  and  find. 

Let  me  unto  Thee  aspire, 
Let  thy  spirit's  hol}r  fire 
From  all  taint  my  heart  secure, 
That  it  gentle  be  and  pure. 

Let  me,  troubled,  fly  to  Thee, 
As  the  dying  roe  would  flee 
From  the  hunter's  clinging  dart, 
Thou  Consoler  of  the  heart. 

Let  me  love  Thee,  God,  and  be 
Bound  in  sweetness  unto  Thee. 
Gentty  let  m}r  spirit  pra}r, 
Gently,  God,  to  Thee  alway. 


VENICE.* 

The  deep,  grand  echbes  of  those  old  Doge  wars, 

And  the  mad  energies  of  noontide  power 

Swept  through  her  strain,  for  Venice  made  no  pause, 

Till  the  fair  sea-washed  islands  were  her  dower. 

The  music  saddens, — the  melancholy  tides 

Seem  now  to  moan  upon  the  crumbling  walls, 

*Suggested  by  the  performance  of  a  piece  of  music  by  this  name. 


ETTA  UDORA  FRENCH.  731 

Where  Poverty  in  voiceless  grief  abides, 

For  Freedom's  step  sounds  not  within  her  halls. 

But  the  still  night  will  watch  around  the  place, 

And  the  pale  moon  look  down  upon  her  there, 

As  they  have  done.     The  traveller  will  trace 

Her  history  beside  her,  dead  yet  fair. 

Anon,  methought  I  heard  the  carnival, 

That  fostered  relic  of  a  gayer  day, 

Dance  in  her  touch,  and  o'er  the  dim  canal 

The  gondola  sailed  on  its  stately  way, 

Bedecked  with  flowers.     Stirrings  of  triumph  ran 

Then  through  her  strain,  ceasing  as  it  began. 


SOLITUDE. 

Stillness  and  silence,  absence  of  human  crowds, 

The  gentle  tones  of  gentler  solitude, — 

These  are  the  spells  that  lift  from  out  their  shrouds 

Of  earthliness — a  dull,  indifferent  mood — 

Our  thoughts  and  dreams  of  new  and  changing  fates. 

The  breezes  that  fan  Nature  while  she  sleeps, 

The  streams,  the  flowers,  and  their  fair  feathered  mates, 

The  singing  birds,  all  that  around  us  sweeps 

In  storm  or  sunshine,  summer's  peaceful  rest, 

The  winter  with  her  cold,  ambitious  winds, 

Remembered  graves  that  our  heart's  tears  have  blest, 

Each  influence  that  gifted  Nature  binds 

Upon  her  brow,  is  music — that  from  thought 

Strikes  tenderer  music,  which  in  verse  is  wrought. 


IHtta 


Mrs.  French  was  born  in  Manchester,  March  22, 1862.  Her  parents,  Dearborn  P. 
and  Eliza  C.  Glines,  removed  to  Boston  when  she  was  about  live  years  of  age,  but 
returned  to  Manchester  in  1870.  She  was  educated  at  the  public  schools  in  that  city. 
In  1879  she  became  the  wife  of  Joseph  W.  French.  Their  residence  is  in  Man 
chester. 


A  PRAYER. 

Oh  !  Lord,  dear  Master,  we  are  weak, 
We  tremble  when  we  think  of  Thee  ; 

Thy  power  and  glory  bid  us  speak, 
Thy  love  and  mercy  we  would  see. 

We  tremble  to  approach  thy  throne  ; 
Forbid  not,  Lord,  our  feeble  praise, 


732  POETS  OF  NEW  HANPSHIBE. 

Forgive  us,  leave  us  not  alone, 
Bless  and  support  us  all  our  days. 

Father,  our  times  are  in  thy  hand, 
Our  life  and  hope  thou  didst  create, 

And  thou  hast  graven  in  thy  word 

That  "love"  be  watchword,  never  "hate. 

Dear  Lord,  th}T  grace  for  e'er  shall  be 
For  us  an  all-sufficient  store, 

So  wilt  thou  watch  and  guard  and  guide, 
Kind  Father,  what  can  we  ask  more  ? 


DEATH  AND  RESURRECTION. 

A  river,  with  its  waves  of  blackest  dye, 
O'erhung  with  veiling  clouds  no  earthly  eye 

Can  penetrate. 

No  light  I  see.     I  hear  the  sullen  roar ; 
I  cannot  even  see  the  other  shore  ; 

And  as  I  wait 

The  gloomy  fog  still  thicker  rolls  its  cloud, 
Wrapping  my  path  in  one  vast,  dreary  shroud. 

By  some  strange  power 

I'm  onward  urged.     Here  must  I  take  my  waj", 
And  faith  must  guide  me  to  the  light  of  day 

Through  this  dread  hour. 
Within  the  depths  I  walk,  I  sink,  I  faint ; 
"Lord,  save,  I  perish  !"  is  my  quick  complaint; 

Swift  comes  the  guide  : 

"Lo !  I  am  with  you,"  saith  the  Saviour's  word, 
"And  I  have  gone  before,  and  marked  the  road, 

I'm  at  thy  side." 

Oh  !  resurrection,  heaven-born  and  bright ! 
As  hope  comes,  clouds  roll  back,  and  to  ni}'  sight 

The  other  shore, — 

The  glowing,  golden  spires  of  heaven  reveal. 
Its  rising  grandeur  all  my  soul  doth  heal, 

I  fear  no  more. 

The  waves  of  heavenly  music  rise  and  roll 
Triumphant,  sweet,  over  my  waiting  soul ; 

I  hear  the  tone 

Whose  cadences  divine  such  mere}*  wear ; 
Above  my  sinful,  faltering  heart  I  hear 

The  sweet  "well  done." 


ETTA  UDOEA  FRENCH.  733 

QUESTIONS. 

What  is  there  in  the  storm-tossed  sea 

To  speak  of  wond'rous  strength  and  power  ? 
How  rush  the  strong  winds  o'er  the  lea, 

Bowing  in  fury  tree  and  flower  ? 
How  frowns  the  sky  with  tempests  cast? 

How  flashes  out  the  lightning's  sweep? 
What  strange  power  stays  the  storm  at  last, 

That  sobs  and  grieves  itself  to  sleep  ? 

What  subtle  charm  is  in  the  sky  ? 

The  fleecy  cloud  now  flecks  the  blue, 
Now  turns  to  gold  in  mid-day's  eye, 

Now  burns  like  fire  in  sunset's  hue. 
The  robins  carol  forth  their  song  ; 

And  wild-birds,  from  the  green  wood  spraj-s, 
The  thankful,  graceful  tune  prolong 

In  blithesome,  cheery  roundelays. 

The  lilies  blossom  white  and  red, 

The  fragrant  roses  scent  the  air, 
With  rain  and  dew  the  fields  are  fed, 

The  whole  earth  speaks  God's  loving  care. 
Lo  !  there  is  beauty  everywhere, 

Though  we  ma}'  only  see  a  part. 
Why  seem  these  blessings  all  so  rare? 

Why  speak  these  things  unto  man's  heart? 

Oh  !  back  of  all  the  storms  and  wind 

Is  God's  divine  and  powerful  hand, 
Behind  the  sky  His  face  so  kind 

Is  smiling  on  the  favored  land. 
The  birds  but  sing  His  care  for  all, 

The  flowers  the  same  sweet  story  tell ; 
If  these  upon  His  bounty  fall, 

Will  He  not  man  protect  as  well? 

Then  learn  to  trust  His  bounteous  grace, 

Lean  on  His  mercy  kind  and  true, 
Fear  not  tlry  Father's  friendly  face 

That  beams  with  sympathy  for  you. 
Rest  in  Him  ;  trust  Him,  as  a  child 

Is  led  by  earthly  parent's  hand  ; 
So  shalt  thou  recognize  his  smile, 

And  enter  heaven's  fair,  radiant  land. 


734  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

THE  GOLDEN  CITY. 

A  city's  walls, 

Jasper-built,  flame  out  with  shimmering  light, 
With  the  Lamb's  glory,  half  transparent,  bright ! 
The  sun  faints,  as  the  wondrous,  dazzling  sight 

Upon  it  falls. 

No  more  we  need  thy  shining  rays,  O  sun, 
To  mark  the  passing  time  ;  thy  race  is  run. 
God  is  the  light  thereof,  and  Time  is  done. 

Eternity 

Begins  its  ponderous  endless  wheel  to  turn, 
Twelve  pearls  as  gates  on  golden  hinges  burn, 
The  twelve  foundations  are  of  precious  stone. 

Bridal  city  I 

Over  thy  streets  and  domes  and  spires  of  gold, 
O'er  thy  strange  beauty  never  yet  half  told, 
O'er  throne  and  people,  glory  cloud  enrolled, 

God  reigns  in  love. 

Within  those  walls  all  who  in  Him  confide 
Forever  serve  Him  as  their  King  and  Guide ; 
None  but  the  pure  and  \\o\y  there  abide 

With  him  above, 

His  hand  shall  wipe  all  sorrow's  tears  awa}*, 
Their  white  robes  clothe  them  like  the  light  of  da}-, 
Their  crowns  send  forth  a  golden,  gleaming  ray 

Like  stars  in  night. 

Down  on  them  falls  the  blessing  sweet  and  strange, 
Immortal  life,  that  knows  no  grief  or  change  ; 
And  o'er  those  Eden-bowered  fields  they  range 

In  sweet  delight, — 
B\r  the  river  of  life,  that  flows  adown 
To  the  sea  of  glass,  from  beneath  God's  throne, 
While  they  sing  to  harps  of  celestial  tone, 

Triumphant  Grace ! 

Oh,  may  we  stand  within  that  City's  wall, 
To  hear  the  music  as  it  swells  and  falls, 
To  hear  the  loving  Father  when  he  calls, 

And  see  His  face. 


THOMAS. 

"Nay,  ask  me  not,  for  I  will  not  believe, 
Till  I  the  Master's  very  face  do  see, 

And  touch  the  wounds  I  saw  my  Christ  receive ; 
Till  then  I  will  not  think  of  Galilee. 


JAMES  MEADE  ADAMS.  735 

What  !  risen  3-011  sa}^?   Nay,  Peter  ;  say  it  not. 

How  !  would  He  lay  His  head  within  the  grave 
Had  he  such  power  ?   But  oh  !  I  trusted  that 

He  was  the  true  Messiah,  come  to  save 

"His  people,  and  to  lift  them  from  their  sin. 

And  truly  all  His  life  was  grandly  spent, 
Yea,  on  the  lake  He  calmed  the  storm's  wild  din  ; 

E'en  when  He  died  the  temple's  vail  was  rent  ! 
Nature  owned  Him  master  ;  diseases  fled 

Before  His  touch,  and  devils  called  Him  blest  ; 
And,  when  He  had  no  place  to  lay  His  head, 

Earth  softened  Him  a  pillow  on  her  breast. 

"But  He  was  mortal,  and  the  cruel  spears 

Of  heartless  soldiers  pierced  and  gored  his  side, 
And  while  the  wondering  sun  grew  black  with  tears, 

Our  Christ,  our  Hope  and  our  Salvation  died. 
Nay,  Peter,  do  not  tell  me  o'er  again  ; 

I  have  no  heart  to  realize  the  news  ; 
Saj"  rather  that  our  Saviour's  blest  remains 

Are  stolen  from  us  by  the  wicked  Jews." 


A  presence  and  a  face,  whose  loving 

Pierced  through  the  black  clouds  of  his  doubt  and  dread, 
A  tender  voice  that  knew  of  no  disguise  ; 

"Thomas,  touch  me,  I  am  alive,  not  dead  !" 
The  holden  floodgates  of  that  doubter's  -faith 

Gave  sudden  way,  and  overwhelmed  his  soul, 
"O  Lord  !"  he  cried,  "yea,  Thou  hast  conquered  Death  !" 

And,  weeping  there,  poor  Thomas  was  made  whole. 


James 


James  M.  Adams  was  born  in  Nashua,  June  26,  1862.  His  father  was  a  soldier 
in  the  7th  regiment  N.  H.  Volunteers,  and  died  of  disease  at  Beaufort,  S.  C., 
Aug.  25, 1862.  When  James  was  four  years  old  his  mother  removed  to  North 
"VVeare,  and  soon  after  died,  leaving  him  in  care  of  an  aunt  with  whom  he  has  since 
resided. 


OCTOBER. 

O  jewel-crowned  October  bright, 
The  queen  of  all  the  year, 

Resplendent  in  thy  crimson  robes, 
We  bid  you  welcome  here. 


730  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 

We  bid  3'ou  come  to  reign  again 
O'er  all  our  vales  and  hills, 

Ere  winter's  icy  touch  shall  chill 
Our  bright  and  sparkling  rills. 

No  fairer  queen  was  ever  seen 
By  subject,  than  art  thou  ; 

We  own  thy  power  each  gladsome  hour, 
And  crown  anew  thy  brow. 

Thy  crimson  robe  is  flecked  with  gold, 
And  trimmed  with  brightest  green  ; 

While  yet  thy  magic  eyes  emit 
Warm  rays  of  sunlight  sheen. 

With  lavish  hand  thou  spread'st  abroad 
The  fruits  of  autumn  rare, 

The  purple  grape,  the  blushing  peach, 
The  apple,  and  the  pear. 

A  fairer  queen  was  never  seen 
By  subject,  than  art  thou  ; 

Each  gladsome  hour  we  own  thy  power, 
And  crown  anew  thy  brow. 


LAD  AND  LASSIE. 

"0  Jamie,  maun  ye  leave  me? 

O  Jamie,  maun  3*6  go? 
Ye  dinna  ken  'twould  grieve  me 

And  fill  my  heart  with  woe. 

"O  Jamie,  on  the  billow 
There's  monie  a  lad  been  lost, 

While  nightly  on  her  pillow 
A  sleepless  lassie  tossed. 

"O  Jamie,  if  ye  gang  awa' 
The  light  will  turn  to  gloom, 

A  lassie's  heart  which  is  her  a' 
Will  find  a  living  tomb. 

"A  lassie's  heart  which  is  her  a' 
Will  lie  within  a  tomb  ; 

A  lassie's  cheek  ye  ca'  sac  braw 
Will  lose  its  bonnie  bloom." 


ANNIE  E.  DE  WOLFE.  737 

"O  Jeanie,  quiet  a'  your  fears, 

An'  let  your  heart  be  glad  ; 
Dry  up,  my  lass,  those  pearly  tears, 

An'  be  na  longer  sad. 

"For  I'll  na  leave  ye  for  the  sea, 

Nor  from  ye  will  I  stray ; 
Your  loving  laddie  I  will  be 

Forever  and  for  aye  !" 


ISABEL  DEANE. 

Oh  !  why  dost  thou  haunt  me  forever, 
My  beautiful  Isabel  Deane? 

There's  never  a  lake  or  a  river 
But  in  it  thy  image  is  seen. 

And  in  the  dark  pines  in  the  night-time 
I  see  thy  sweet  face  all  the  same, 

And  mythical  beings  around  me 
Seem  ever  to  whisper  thy  name. 

I  never  sit  down  in  the  twilight 
But  a  form  stands  out  all  alone, 

In  which  in  its  matchless  beauty 
I  recognize  none  but  thine  own. 

O  Isabel,  Isabel,  darling ! 

In  fancy  thou'rt  with  me  for  aye  ; 
In  reality  ne'er  shall  I  meet  thee 

Until  the  last  closing  of  day. 


&nnte  15. 

Miss  De  Wolfe  was  born  in  Nashua,  October  12, 1863.    She  is  a  daughter  of  the 
late  George  G.  B.  De  Wolfe,  whose  poems  are  found  elsewhere  in  this  volume. 


UNE  PENSEE. 

The  watch-bells  of  the  long,  still  night 

Peal  on  the  sigh-fed  air ; 
The  rain  is  dropping,  soft  and  light, 

Bound  globules,  wondrous  rare. 


738  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Oh,  month  of  tears  and  quick-shed  showers, 

Oh,  month  of  clouded  sun ! 
We  think  of  love's  pink-tinted  flowers, 

And  bless  these  skies  so  dun. 

Oh,  pure  love  bud  !  come  grow  for  me, 

Fairer  than  song  hath  told  ! 
Oh,  sweet  love  flower !  come  blow  for  me, 

And  fragrance  rich  enfold. 

I've  seen  thee  bloom,  far,  far  away  ; 

I've  dreamt  I  held  thee  here  ; 
I'd  dream  again,  and  when  I  wake 

Bewail  thee  with  a  tear ! 


jFannte  Jgunttngton 


Miss  Runnels,  the  daughter  of  a  Congregational  clergyman,  was  born  at  Orford, 
Dec-ember  5,  1863. 


THE  POET'S  DREAM. 

On  song's  seraphic  pinions  borne  afar, 

A  poet  found  him  in  a  dream}-  vale 

Made  sacred  to  the  gods,  and  consecrate 

To  solitude,  to  meditation  shrined, 

By  mount  Parnassus  cloistered  from  the  world, 

Forever  washed  -by  founts  Castalian. 

"O  grim  Disquietude,  with  folded  wings, 

Rest  tbee,"  the  poet  sang,  "in  this  great  peace  !' 

The  poet's  freedom  gave  him  tuneful  breath, 

Nor  could  h.e  wish  abode  more  isolate 

From  narrow  confines  of  a  narrow  world  ; 

This  measured  space  Arcadian  which  fell 

From  overflowing  Paradise,  bej'ond  his  ken 

Reached  out  to  mock  a  broad  sufficient  world, 

For  to  the  poet,  heir  of  other  worlds, 

Who  seeketh  the  divinity  supreme 

Enthroned  within  a  thousand  twinkling  orbs, 

Worlds  greater  this  but  feebly  miniatures, — 

This  world  that  gives  his  natural  being  breath. 

One  eve 
Auspicious  and  serene,  upon  the  mount 


FANNIE  HUNTING  TON  R  UNNELti.  739 

Descended,  in  the  poet's  full  behold, 
A  chariot  that  seemed  a  cloud  of  flame, 
Wherein  were  poet-sages  and  with  them 
Th'  incarnate  inspiration  of  their  song ; — 
Such  vital  power  that  fed  their  purer  minds 
Was  that,  that  sympathetic  hearts  do  thrill 
And  glad  respond,  a  holier  brotherhood  ! 

The  poet  clad  him  in  a  pilgrim  guise, 
Untiring  sought  to  scale  the  rugged  steeps, 
Till  the  sharp  rocks  denied  him  furtherance, 
And  straight  received  his  torn  and  bleeding  frame  ; — 
When  loud  there  rang  a  fiat  thunderous 
Krom  peak  to  peak  :  "Despairing  Pilgrim,  stay  ! 
Think  not  to  dare  these  heights  precipitate 
Until  from  actual  merit  of  thine  own, — 
Some  human  good,  the  gods  conduct  thee  here. 
Grieve  not,  we  send  our  angels  ministrant ;" 
And  thereupon  chief  of  this  lofty  band 
Ordained  a  guide,  an  heavenly  Beatrice, 
To  lead  him  back  unto  his  Eden-land. 

Now  from  the  mount 

Come  maids  Shaksperian  with  varied  charm, — 
First  Juliet  with  love  in  every  look, 
Full-blended  with  her  life-blood  ;  Imogen, 
Clothed  in  devotion  and  fidelity  ; 
Helena  with  the  golden  hair  of  Hope, 
And  heart  heroic  ;  Portia,  dignified 
Of  grace,  with  soul  refined  ;    Fair  Rosalind 
(Hides  dancing  by  in  tender  gayety ; 
Viola  with  a  pensive  sweetness  filled, 
And  modesty  of  mien  ;  Hermione, 
Enrobed  in  deathless  faithfulness,  and  pure  ; — 
These  in  sweet  chorus  sang  him  to  repose. 
Right  soon  he  woke  as  the  angelic  voice 
Of  Laura  made  rich  music  in  his  ear ; 
He  scarce  could  see  for  sunlight  of  her  hair 
Beneath  the  virtuous  coronal  she  wore  ; 
Content  to  feel  her  presence'  influence 
He  could  not  brook  the  beauty  of  her  face. 
Down  stepped  Elaine,  fair  maid  of  Astolat, 
Shone  in  her  hand  the  shield  of  Lancelot, — 
A  talisman  to  keep  her  spirit  pure. 
The  stately  Maud  tripped  lightly  by  his  side — 
Maud,  ruby-lipped  and  decked  in  dewy  flowers. 
A  gentle  form  above  him  bent,  a  face 
Was  mirrored  in  the  rocks,  the  trees.     Yun  rill 


740  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 


Shone  back  the  radiance  of  her  tranquil  soul, 

The  light  that  only  Lucy  could  impart 

Came  from  her  large  eyes  luminous  and  deep, — 

A  space  the  star  of  Wordsworth  shone  for  him. 

And  Genevieve,  the  hope,  the  joy,  the  light 

Of  Coleridge,  with  noiseless  foot-fall  passed, — 

Her  bosom  swelling  with  an  inward  love, 

Her  eyes  downcast.     And  gentle  Christabel, 

With  beating  heart,  in  attitude  of  prayer 

Bent  low  beside  a  neighb'ring  hollow  oak, 

Within  the  poet's  ken.     Beside,  he  saw 

The  Duchess  May  upon  her  noble  steed, 

Anear  her  sate  her  gallant  lord,  Sir  Guj-. 

Ah,  woe  !  he  saw  their  onward  ride  to  death, 

But  death  and  all  its  terrors  seemed  a  dream, 

For  look  of  deathless  triumph  on  her  face  ; 

And  one,  whose  breath  in  gentle  slumber  moved, 

The  poet  heard,  and  turning,  he  beheld 

Saint  Agnes'  dreamer,  artless  Madeline, 

While  in  the  dim  drew  near  young  Porphyro, 

His  soul  a-gleam  with  admiration  hushed, 

Tempted  but  held  aloof  in  holy  awe. 

A  sigh  of  sweet  content  the  poet  yields, 

As  twain  in  one,  love-led,  they  steal  away. 

Alas  !  a  shadow  darkens  o'er  the  scene — 

Lone  Margaret  in  her  imprisonment, 

Moaning,  "My  heart  is  sore,  my  peace  is  gone  !" 

O  glory  of  her  life  become  a  pall ! 

O  Mary  mother,  there's  a  living  death, 

But  may  thy  sweet  saints  pray  her  soul  to  rest, 

That  'neath  the  pall  of  death  there  ma}'  be  peace — 

Such  peace,  denied  of  earth,  attend  her  soul ! 

A  burst  of  sunlight  breaks  the  day  less  gloom, 

Quick  followed  b}*  a  flood  of  rapturous  song, 

And  Shelle3T's  skylark  pours  from  purple  clouds 

A  challenge  to  the  chain  of  slumber  weft 

Around  the  poet ;  he  dare  not  resist, 

Nor  can  he  tear  him  from  the  potent  spell. 

"Here  in  this  valley  let  me  ever  rest, 

While  by  me  surge  the  throng  innumerable, — 

The  real  and  the  ideal,  glorious 

In  song,  whose  lives  command  the  poet's  theme, 

That  breathe  an  inspiration  to  my  soul ! 

No  more  I  mourn  the  unattained  heights, 

Where  bards  sublime  in  lofty  commune  dwell, 

Can  I  but  see  reflection  of  their  own 


LULU  E.   TEEVITT.  741 


In  lives  through  them  immortal,  and  made  pure 

In  the  refining  ordeal  of  life." 

The  poet  ended,  and  upon  his  brow 

A  crown  of  stars  fell  through  the  waking  morn, 

And  he  arose  like  peace  when  Christ  was  born. 


Huiu  3B.  ftrebttt. 

Miss  Trevitt  is  a  daughter  of  Capt.  John  Trevitt,  of  Mount  Vernon.  She  is  pur 
suing  her  studies  at  the  Academy  in  that  town.  Her  father  is  a  graduate  of  WVst 
Point,  ami  has  been  much  in  the  service  of  his  country. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

With  smiles  or  tears,  with  hopes  or  fears, 

The  old  year  goes. 
We  cannot  stay  it  in  its  flight, 
Nor  would  we  call  back,  if  we  might, 

Its  joys  or  woes. 

The  history  of  each  word  and  deed 
Now  lies  before  us,  and  we  read, 
With  now  a  smile  and  then  a  tear, 
The  story  of  the  vanished  3*ear. 
We  mourn  with  tender,  sad  regret 
The  sacred  joys  now  past,  and  yet 
We  know  the  new  year  hath  in  store 
Blessings  we  have  not  dreamed  before. 

We  triumph  for  our  victories  won, 

Or  grieve  for  wrongs  that  we  have  done  ; 

Once  more  we  feel  the  crushing  pain 

Of  bitter  sorrow,  and  again 

We  climb  with  bleeding  feet  and  torn, 

Up  steep,  rough  places  ;  weary,  worn, 

We  plead  once  more  for  needed  rest, 

And  finding  it,  again  are  blest. 

The  lessons  that  each  day  has  taught, 
The  work  our  feeble  hands  have  wrought, 
The  love  we  have  received  or  given, — 
Making  our  earth  seem  more  like  heaven,- 
All  these  have  made  thee  very  dear 
To  each  of  us,  thou  dying  year. 


712  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIEE. 


And  in  our  hearts  we  live  again 

The  vanished  hours  of  peace  and  pain. 

O  year,  we  cannot  leave  thee  yet ! 
Our  hearts  still  linger,  with  regret, 
On  pleasure,  suffering,  joy  and  woe. 
The  time  draws  near  when  thou  must  go, 
The  moments  one  by  one  take  flight, 
And  gathering  tear-drops  dim  our  sight, 
Beloved  year — Good-night,  Good-  night ! 

But  still  our  lives  go  on  and  on, 
Although  the  gray  old  year  has  gone, 
For  each  of  us  awaits  a  share 
Of  work  to  do,  of  pain  to  bear. 
We  know  not  what  there  is  in  store 
For  us  this  year,  but  as  before 
If  we  but  strive  to  do  His  will, 
God's  blessing  will  be  with  us  still. 


AN  IDEAL. 

He  is  strong  and  brave  and  knightly, 

Oh,  his  heart  is  true  ! 
And  he  speaketh  ever  rightly, 
Never  deed  of  wrong  unsightly 

Could  he  do. 

Strong  his  arm  to  help  the  weary, 

And  all  wrong  to  right. 
Never  house  so  sad  and  drear}', 
But  his  presence,  glad  and  cheery, 

Makes  it  bright. 

Tender  hands  to  help  the  wounded, 

Tender  heart  and  pure. 
Sympathy  and  love  unbounded, 
Yet  on  justice  ever  grounded, 

Strong  and  sure. 

Large  his  heart,  an  "angel's  measure," 

And  his  bounty  free. 
Ever  seeking  others'  pleasure, 
Giving  of  his  heart's  best  treasure, 

Generously. 


MAY  E.  PERLEY.  743 


Come  he  now  or  come  he  never, 

Nothing  mattereth, 
He  is  mine  and  mine  forever, 
Nothing  e'er  our  love  shall  sever, 

Life  or  death. 


IN  EMBRYO. 

As  an  imprisoned  bird  beats  restlessly 

With  feeble  wings  against  her  cage's  bars, 
Then  growing  stronger,  breaking  free, 
She  rises  on  swift  pinions  joyfully 
Up  toward  the  stars  ; 

So  flutters  in  my  heart  of  hearts  a  song, 
Too  weak  to  break  its  prison  bars  ; 

But  I  will  nourish  it  till  sweet  and  strong 

And  tender,  it  shall  rise  ere-long 
Up  toward  the  stars. 


IS. 

Miss  I'erley  Is  a  native  and  resident  of  Lempster.    She  was  educated  at  Tildcn 
Female  Seminary,  West  Lebanon,  and  has  become  a  school  teacher. 


A  MORNING  IN  JULY. 

The  glorious  sun  comes  peeping  o'er  the  mountain, 
Shedding  o'er  hill  and  plain  his  splendor  bright, 

The  sunbeams,  springing  from  this  golden  fountain, 
Throw  over  all  their  spray  of  dazzling  light. 

They  play  at  hide-and-seek  behind  the  shadows, 
With  barbs  of  gold  the}'  pierce  the  lucid  pearls 

That  mid  the  grass-blades,  spanned  by  silver  ladders, 
Lie  glistening  clear  when  night  her  banner  furls. 

A  playful  breeze  is  whispering  to  the  clover, 

As  to  foretell  the  beauty  of  the  day ; 
While  it  to  me  is  gently  wafting  over 

The  breath  of  meadow  pinks  and  new-mown  hay. 

And  as  I  stand,  all  save  the  scene  forgetting, 
Clear,  ringing  voices  fall  upon  my  ear. 

The  mowers  now  their  shining  scythes  are  whetting, 
Which  tells  the  hour  of  five  is  drawing  near. 


744  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

An  hundred  birds  their  joyful  lays  are  telling, 
They  greet  with  joy  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

Their  many  voices  all  unite  in  swelling 
A  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Eternal  One. 

And  as  I  listen  to  their  gladsome  stoiy, 

My  song  so  frail  joins  theirs,  so  sweet  and  grand, 

To  the  Creator  of  this  world  of  glory, 

Who  holdeth  all  as  in  His  strong,  right  hand. 


Sana. 

Francis  Dana  is  the  son  of  Col.  George  H.  Dana  (formerly  of  the  32d  Mass.  Regt.) 
and  Frances  M.,  daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  Edmund  Uurke  of  Newport.  He  un 
born  in  Singapore,  East  India,  March  4,  18GG.  His  parents  left  India  when  he  w;i- 
about  three  years  of  age,  and  went  to  Laramie,  Wyoming  Ty.,  among  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  He  remained  there  until  the  age  of  ele'ven  when'he  entered  St.  Paul's 
School  at  Concord.  His  home  is  with  his  parents  who  reside  in  Newport.  On  his 
father's  side  he  is  descended  from  a  well  known  Massachusetts  family,  the  venerable 
poet  Richard  H.  Dana  having  been  one  of  his  relatives;  while  his  maternal  grand 
father,  Hon.  Edmund  Burke,  was  not  only  an  able  political  writer  but  had  also 
Home  poetic  talent. 


A  DREAM. 

Night  overhung  the  earth  with  sable  veil, 

And  in  the  starry  sky 
Rose  high  the  silver  moon  with  radiance  pale, 

While  the  night-raven's  cry, 
From  the  seclusion  of  yon  wooded  hill, 
Discordant,  woke  the  air :  all  else  was  still. 

I  walked  alone  beside  a  stagnant  mire, 

Over  whose  lifeless  tide, 
Ever  with  wavering  motion,  far  and  near, 

Strange  shadows  seemed  to  glide, 
And  now  retreat,  and  turning  now  advance, 
Mingling  their  air}*  forms  in  mystic  dance. 

I  stood,  and  on  the  spectral  shadows  gazed, 

And  shuddered  at  the  sight, 
As  far  and  wide  the  stagnant  waters  blazed 

With  phosphorescent  light : 
Lurid  and  dire  the  depths  illumined  shone 
Like  the  pale  waves  of  gloomy  Acheron. 

And  wilder  grew  the  dance,  and  faster  still 

The  gliding  spectres  fled 
O'er  the  smooth  surface  of  the  lake  at  will ; 

My  cold  limbs  shrunk  with  dread, 
Nor  could  I  turn,  nor  take  my  eyes  away, 
For  some  strange  power  within  that  bade  me  stay 


HUBBAED  ALONZO  S AH  TON.  745 

With  mine  own  living  eyes  I  saw  my  sprite, 

Which  from  my  bod}'  fled, 
Walk  the  pale  waters  in  the  silent  night, 

Amongst  the  shadowy  dead, 
Join  the  wild  wayward  dance  upon  the  wave. 
Oh !  for  some  friendly  power  to  see  and  save  ! 

The  livelong  night  I  la}"  in  nerveless  trance 

Beside  the  moonlit  shore, 
And  watched  my  spirit  in  the  spectral  dance 

Skim  the  wide  waters  o'er, 
Till  the  long  range  of  eastern  hills  grew  gray 
With  the  dim  glimmer  of  returning  day. 

Then  the  weird  shadows  faint  and  fainter  grew  ; 

The  blue  fire  died  away  ; 
'Neath  the  cool  freshness  of  the  morning  dew, 

Before  the  sunlight's  ra}~, 
O'er  hill  and  vale  rose  nature's  wakening  cry 
From  throat  of  myriad  birds  in  harmony. 

And  now  the  rosy  dawn  begins  to  break ; 

The  dismal  night  is  done  ; 
The  fading  shadows  from  the  misty  lake 

Roll  up  to  meet  the  sun  ; 

A  freshening  breeze  sweeps  o'er  it  from  the  west, 
Wafting  my  soul  back  to  m}~  thankful  breast. 


What  is  contained  in  the  remaining  portion  of  this  volume  was  prepared  for  the 
press  after  most  of  the  preceding  pages  had  been  printed,  consequently  the  chrono 
logical  order  is  not  longer  attempted. 


Barton. 


H.  A.  Barton  is  a  native  of  Croydon,  born  May  12,  1842.    He  resides  in  Newport, 
and  is  editor  of  the  New  Hampshire  Argus  and  Spectator. 


DEVOTION. 

Oh  when  to  yonder  heavens  I  gaze, 

Or  this  green  earth  survey, 
Where  countless  worlds  in  glory  blaze, 

And  countless  creatures  play, 
'Tis  then  I  think  of  One  above, 
Of  boundless  wisdom,  power,  and  love. 


746  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Rejoice,  O  earth  !  all  nature  sing, 
And  shout  Jehovah's  praise  ; 

And  man  some  grateful  offring  bring 
To  thy  Creator's  praise. 

A  contrite  heart,  that  sacrifice, 

The  Lord  thy  God  will  not  despise. 

Go  when  the  beams  of  morning  bright 
First  gild  the  eastern  skies  ; 

Go  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
And  raise  th}*  grateful  eyes 

To  Him  who  rules  the  world  in  love, 

And  sends  his  blessings  from  above. 

Then  in  devotion's  purest  strain 
Thy  secret  faults  confess  ; 

His  grace  can  cleanse  the  guilty  stain, 
And  with  acceptance  bless. 

His  grace  shall  triumph,  all  shall  know 

What  His  almighty  love  can  do. 

Then  praise  the  Lord,  exalt  His  name, 

Let  pure  devotion  rise, 
And  kindle  to  a  livelier  flame, 

Whose  incense  seeks  the  skies. 
For  wide  the  Lord  Jehovah  reigns, 
And  all  His  boundless  love  maintains. 


Miss  Piper  was  born  in  W^ston,  Vt.,  March  13, 1841.  She  removed  with  her  par 
ents  to  Claremont  In  1859,  and  her  death  occurred  in  that  town,  Oct.  4, 186D.  A 
memorial  of  her  life,  by  Rev.  Moses  T.  Runnels,  was  published  in  1875. 


SATURDAY  EVE. 

The  latest  day  is  waning,  the  Sabbath  draweth  nigh, 
Another  sun's  declining  far  in  the  western  sk}' ; 
The  birds  are  sweetly  singing  their  evening  praise  at  will, 
Another  week  is  dying,  and  earth  is  hushed  and  still. 

Our  heavenly  Father,  hear  us,  our  stubborn  wills  subdue, 
Behold  our  feeble  nature,  and  bid  our  hearts  be  true ; 
Oh,  lift  our  spirits  higher,  and  ma}'  our  wanderings  cease ; 
Oh,  give  us  holy  pleasure,  and  let  it  all  be  peace. 

And  when  the  Sabbath  dawneth,  let  sacred  thoughts  arise, 
That  we  may  humbly  worship  our  Father  in  the  skies ; 
And  ma}*  thy  Holy  Spirit  dwell  with  us  through  the  day, 
And  let  a  light  from  heaven  dawn  on  our  souls,  we  pray. 


CAROLINE  E.   WHITON— JAMES  P.   WALKER.         747 

(Karaline  15. 

Mrs.  C.  E.  Whiton  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth.  She  is  well  known  in  literature, 
and  is  the  author  of  much  excellent  poetry.  Nine  of  her  beautiful  poems  are 
found  in  the  "Poets  of  Portsmouth." 


SUMMER  SUNSET. 

I  watched  the  golden  summer  sun 
Fade  slowly  down  behind  the  sea, — 

God's  token  that  the  day  was  done 
In  crimson  flushing  left  to  me. 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  skies  ; 

My  heart  was  dropping  noiseless  tears  ; 
For,  ah  !  I  thought  of  closing  eyes, 

Whose  lids  I  had  not  kissed  for  years. 

Oh  !  softly  as  the  setting  sun, 

My  darlings  sank  behind  the  sea, — 

God's  token  that  his  peace  was  won, 
The  looks  of  glory  left  to  me. 

By  that  seraphic  light  which  fell 

Ineffably  divine  and  sweet, 
I  know,  beyond  the  soul's  farewell, 

Behind  the  sea,  that  we  shall  meet. 


James 


The  late  James  P.  Walker  was  a  native  of  Portsmouth.    He  became  a  publisher 
in  Boston.    He  was  at  the  head  of  the  firm,  Walker,  Wise  and  Company. 


SEVEN  YEARS  TO-DAY. 

'Tis  seven  }-ears,  my  love,  to-day, 

Since  hand  in  hand  we  started, 
In  faith  to  tread  life's  devious  way, 

Till  we  by  death  are  parted. 

And,  God  be  thanked  ! — though  Fortune's  smile 

Our  pathway  has  not  lighted, 
And  many  hopes,  indulged  long  while, 

Have  ruthlessly  been  blighted, — 

We're  spared  to  one  another  yet, 

And  blessed  with  "troops  of  friends  ;" 

No  daily  want  has  not  been  met ; 
And,  thanks  to  Him  who  sends 


748  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Life's  choicest  blessings,  love  and  hope  ! 

We  are  stronger  now  to  bear, 
And  abler  with  life's  ills  to  cope, 

Than  if  we'd  known  no  care. 

And  though  those  ills  we  may  not  cure, 
Nor  taste  un anxious  rest, 

With  "kings  and  priests  of  literature," 
Our  constant  welcome  guests, — 

With  childhood's  laugh,  domestic  peace, 

And  ready  willing  hands, 
We  murmur  not,  though  no  increase 

Is  ours,  of  "house  or  lands." 


Otatijarine 

Miss  McClintock,  was  a  native  and  resident  of  Portsmouth. 


DEATH  IN  SPRING. 

Nature's  life-throb  strengthened,  quickeneth  ; 

Count  we  a  pulse-beat  faint  and  slow  ; 
Passing  beneath  her  arches  of  triumph, 

Vanquished,  graveward  her  child  must  go. 

Vanquished  !  but  not  so  for  ever  : 
Keep  thy  triumph,  Oh  nature  life  ! 

Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  together, 
Soul  shall  see  their  parting  strife. 

Tree  and  plant  and  flower  upspringing, 

Fades  life's  nobler  bloom  away  ? 
Death  the  pictured  form  effaceth, 

Faintly  drawn  upon  the  clay. 

Bird  and  breeze  and  brook  in  chorus, 

Striving  with  one  dying  tone, 
Soul  shall  sing  when  ye  are  silent ; 

Drown  that  breathing  faint — swell  on  ! 

Catching  a  tone  that  falls  from  heaven, 
Sings  this  life  like  a  mocking-bird  : 

Let  the  notes  die  !  soaring  God- ward, 
The  immortal  skylark's  heard. 

Father  !  to  thee  we  commend  the  spirit 
Over  the  waters  drifting  to  thee  ; 


S.  ADAMS  WIG  GIN.  749 

Down  in  the  black  gulf,  oh  white  angel  diver ! 
Rescue  the  soul — immortality  !  • 

"There  shall  be  no  more  sea,"  cries  the  angel ; 

Crieth  the  soul,  the  sea  could  not  drown  ; 
Safe  on  the  shore  where  the  God-beloved  season, 

Spring-time  eternal,  weareth  the  crown. 


Of  this  poet  It  may  be  said  that  he  is  a  native,  or  was  a  resident  of  Portsmouth. 
He  occupies  an  honorable  place  in  that  excellent  volume,  "The  Poets  of  Ports 
mouth."  He  removed  from  that  city  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  but  his  present  resi- 
denoe,  if  he  is  yet  alive,  is  unknown  to  the  compiler  of  this  book. 


LOVE. 

This  morn  I  wandered  in  the  wood, 

And  asked  a  wild-bird  free, 
Where  dwells  true  love, — the  highest  good  ; 

And  he  carolled  thus  to  me  : 

"Love  is  thy  holy  Paraclete, 

To  comfort  and  sustain  ; 
To  make  thy  life  with  joy  replete, 

And  Eden  bloom  again. 

Love  is  the  harp  of  David,  sweet, 

To  calm  3'our  wild  despair, 
And  lay  your  soul  at  Jesus'  feet, 

An  offering  pure  and  fair. 

Love  is  the  "Holy  of  Holies"  fane, 

Where  burns  the  sacred  flame 
That  frees  the  heart  from  every  stain 

Of  sorrow,  guilt,  or  shame. 

Love  is  the  bearing  of  the  cross, 

Christ's  easy  yoke  to  wear, 
To  count  for  him  all  things  but  dross, 

So  you  his  "crown"  may  wear. 

For  Love  is  God,  and  God  is  Love  ; 

In  him  find  all  thy  rest ; 
Centre  thy  hopes  on  things  above, 

And  Love  shall  fill  thy  breast. 

Love  wings  th}~  flight  to  realms  of  light ; 
Love  opes  the  "gate"  for  thee  ; 


750  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Love  decks  in  robes  of  spotless  white, 
With  palms  of  victory." 

This  is  the  song  the  wild-bird  free 
Warbled  in  tuneful  strains  ; 

My  soul  was  cheered,  bent  was  the  knee ; 
M7  heart  the  son    retains. 


Samuel  ^utisson  $Jartrit»ge. 

Rev.  S.  H.  Partridge  is  pastor  of  the  Congregational  church  in  Greenfield.  He 
was  formerly  pastor  of  a  church  in  Hillsborough.  He  was  born  in  Dalton,  October 
15,  1827. 


HYMN. 

Dear  Saviour,  when  my  love  for  thee 
Springs  forth  anew,  as  fountain  free, 
The  words  I  seek  to  voice  thy  praise 
Have  all  been  used  in  other  days. 

Dear  Lord,  I  hope  thine  eyes  can  see 
A  light  of  love,  in  mine,  for  thce, 
Unlike  all  else,  and  all  my  own, — 
Some  like  the  rainbow  round  the  throne. 

I  hope  the  songs  that  in  my  soul 
Keep  up  their  ceaseless,  wordless  roll 
Are  heard  by  thee,  and  treasured  e'en, 
Till  I  can  know  all  that  they  mean. 

Till  then,  I  tune  some  ancient  lyre, 
And  kindle  at  another's  fire, 
While  marching,  with  thine  army  strong, 
To  reach  our  home,  the  land  of  song. 


Charles  a.  OTfjeler. 


Charles  L.  Wheler,  a  printer,  while  a  resident  of  Concord  published  a  volume  .>[ 
his  poems  entitled,  "The  Winnowing."  In  1848  lie  went  to  Athens,  Georgia,  an  I 
became  editor  aud  publisher  of  the  Athens  Journal. 


THE  SMILE. 

The  heavens  were  blushing  'neath  morning's  first  beam, 
As  brightly  he  came  through  the  portals  of  day, 

When  softly  adown  the  light's  silvery  stream, 
A  smile,  like  an  angel,  was  holding  its  way. 


IRA  HARRIS  COUCH.  751 

It  came  to  the  earth,  and  a  cottage  of  clay 

Was  blessed  with  the  love  that  fell  bright  from  its  wing ; 
It  stole  to  the  lip  of  a  child  at  its  play, 

And  wreathed  o'er  its  face  with  the  brightness  of  spring. 

The  mother  delightedly  hung  o'er  her  child, 

And  brother  and  sister  came  thronging  around, 

And  echoed  his  calling,  so  merry  and  wild, 
Till  trembled  the  air  with  the  jubilant  sound. 

That  smile,  as  a  glance,  passed  from  face  unto  face, 
And  cheered  every  heart  with  a  blessing  benign  ; 

Nor  sorrows  nor  cares  but  departed  apace 

When  dawning  they  saw  but  that  heavenly  sign. 

Oh  !  sweet  is  the  day,  and  delightful  the  earth, 

When  smiles  in  the  morning  bless  children  and  friends, 

For  kindness  and  friendship  join  hands  at  the  hearth, 
And  peace  to  each  heart,  like  the  soft  dew,  descends. 


$ra 


Jra  H.  Couch  was  born  In  Salisbury,  July  17, 1821.  He  was  fitted  for  college  but 
ill  health  obliged  him  to  give  up  study  and  engage  in  out-door  work.  He  became 
a  farmer,  and  later  in  life  engaged  in  mechanical  work.  His  poems  were  nearly 
all  written  in  his  early  years,  and  were  published  in  various  newspapers.  He 
died  January  14, 1883. 


SONNET  TO  A  CRICKET. 

Thou  bane  of  sleep,  avaunt !  why  dost  thou  come 

Thus  all  night  long  with  thy  sad  minstrelsy, 

To  chase  the  enchantress  from  my  sleepless  room  ? 

Dost  thou  not  feel  the  sweet  necessity 

Of  night's  somniferous  reign  ?  Yet  though  thou'rt  free 

From  the  soft  thraldom  of  that  silken  chain 

Wherewith  sleep  fettereth  man,  0  pity  me 

Who  long  upon  my  restless  couch  in  vain,   . 

Have  wooed  oblivion  to  these  weary  eyes ; 

I  listen  to  thy  sad,  unvaried  note, 

Till  forms,  unearthly,  in  the  moonlight  float, 

On  wizard  wing,  and  strangest  melodies 

Startle  dull  silence  on  her  midnight  throne, 

And  fright  sweet  slumber  from  my  pillow  lone. 


TWILIGHT. 

Grateful  twilight !  season  bland  ! 
By  soft  breathing  zephyrs  fanned, 


7.") -2  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

As  tlvy  red  light  fades  away, 
Round  ine  whispering  spirits  say, 
"•Cleave  with  us  the  easy  air, 
Haste  awa}'  to  worlds  more  fair." 

Father !  may  my  end  of  life, 
When  I  go  from  earth  away, 
Be  as  peaceful,  free  from  strife, 
As  this  dying  breath  of  da}- ; 
Glad  I'd  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
Till  the  morning  light  shall  peep. 


SUfrefc  Eittle. 


Alfred  Little  was  born  in  Bosoawen,  June  3, 1823.  At  six  years  of  age  :i  partial 
paralysis  disabled  one  limb,  obliging  him  to  use  a  crutch.  In  1836  the  family  of  his 
father  removed  to  Peoria,  J 11.,  where  a  rheumatic  fever  destroyed  the  use  of  his 
other  leg.  In  1840,  soon  after  the  death  of  his  father,  he  returned  to  his  native  town 
and  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  commenced  work  in  the  melodeon  and  sera- 
phine  shop  of  Charles  Austin  in  Concord.  Here  he  invented  improvements  in  the 
manufacture  of  double  reed  instruments,  and  also  in  tuning  of  instruments.  He 
became  subsequently  very  popular  as  a  concert  giver  and  has  given  delight  to  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  in  New  England  and  at  the  West.  He  was  a  man  of  rare  merit, 
a  refined  gentleman  and  had  many  literary  acquirements.  He  died  December  -27, 
1880. 


MY  MERRY  MAPLE  GROVE. 

There  is  a  spot  to  memory  dear, 

Where  oft  in  childhood  I  would  rove, 
The  merry  wild-bird's  song  to  hear ; 

It  was  my  maple  grove. 
How  fair  the  view  on  every  side — 

The  church  on  yonder  hill, 
Kearsarge  in  all  its  lofty  pride, 

The  pond  so  clear  and  still. 

And  then  the  moss-grown  rock  I'd  climb, 

To  pick  the  berries  ripe  and  red  ; 
While  squirrels  scattered  from  the  limb 

Their  nutshells  on  my  head. 
'Twas  there  I  hammered  from  the  ledge 

Bright  garnets  lined  like  wine, 
Or  gathered  from  its  western  edge 

The  nodding  columbine. 

Dear  maple  grove  !  I  see  thee  now, 
Enrobed  in  dress  of  flowing  green  ; 

There  stands  my  boyhood's  home  below, 
With  grassy  lane  between. 


JAMES  WILLIS  PATTERSON.  753 

Though  fairer  scenes  perchance  ma}-  be 

To  win  a  poet's  love, — 
Yet  thou  art  ever  dear  to  me, 

My  merry  maple  grove. 

There's  not  a  tree  that  braves  the  gale, 

Or  towering  rock  or  purling  rill, 
But  telleth  each  its  simple  tale 

Of  recollection  still. 
Though  flowers  may  fade  and  friends  may  die, 

Though  far  away  I  rove, — 
Yet  often  shall  winged  memory  fly 

To  thee  !   my  maple  grove. 


James 


James  W.  Patterson  was  born  in  Henniker,  July  2,  1823.  He  graduated  at 
Dartmouth  College  in  1848;  and  was  professor  of  Mathematics  in  that  college  from 
1854  to  1859,  when  he  became  professor  of  Astronomy  and  Meteorology  until  1865. 
He  was  member  of  Congress,  1863-7,  and  U.  S.  Senator  1867-73.  Mr.  Patterson's 
poems  were  all  written  in  his  youth.  The  poem  here  given  is  copied  from  the 
"Book  of  Gems." 


EVENTIDE. 

The  golden  gleams 

Of  sunset  beams 

Have  bathed  the  crest  of  the  solemn  mount 
With  floods  of  fire  from  their  heavenly  fount, 
And  the  dying  day,  with  its  fading  light, 
Casts  lingering  smiles  on  the  face  of  night. 

The  steeple's  spire 

Is  tipp'd  with  fire, 

And  the  lambent  ra}-s,  like  an  angel's  smile, 
Gild  o'er  the  hallowing,  sacred  pile, 
And  fading  away  on  its  arching  dome, 
Direct  above  to  the  spirit's  home. 

The  ocean  light 

Blends  with  the  night, 

As,  mirroring  back  from  the  deepening  blue, 
Each  starry  gem  comes  forth  to  view, 
And  a  choral  song  from  the  sounding  deep 
Is  sweetly  murmured  to  the  Maker's  seat. 

The  day  is  gone, 
Night  trembles  on 
To  where  its  last  fleet  moments  ending, 


754  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

In  still}'  darkness  fast  descending  ; 

And  fleeting  ghosts  ascend  the  mountain  high, 

To  list  the  music  of  the  starry  sky. 


Mrs.  Francis  is  the  youngest  daughter  of  Dr  \Villard  P.  Gibson  who  was  many 
years  a  resident  of  Newport  and  who  in  1837  died  in  Woodstock,  Vt.,  a  lew  years 
alter  the  family  removed  from  Newport. 


TOO  LATE. 

If  this  love,  that  is  gilding  life's  summer, 

Had  been  mine  in  life's  spring, 
How  my  soul  would  have  met  the  new  comer 

With  garment  and  ring, 
With  sacrifice  offered  in  gladness, 

With  hope  for  the  beautiful  years  ! 
Alas  !  from  the  depths  of  my  sadness, 

I  greet  it  with  tears. 

Too  late  do  we  stand  at  the  altar ! 

Too  late  yon  rejoice  ! 
Too  late  do  }-ou  tremble  and  falter 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice  ! 
The  hand  that  you  hold  has  grown  thinner ; 

The  heart  has  known  anguish  and  fears  ; 
I  am  yours,  O  victorious  winner ! 

I  salute  you  with  tears  ! 

You  say  that  love's  golden  September 

Is  faithful  and  strong  ; 
You  marvel  that  I  should  remember 

Love's  May -time  of  wrong. 
The  sorrow,  for  you,  is  all  over  ; 

My  heart  is  prophetic  in  fears, — 
And  so,  for  your  kiss  as  in}'  lover, 

I  offer  my  tears, 

What !  give  to  the  cheek,  in  its  whiteness, 

Praise  lost  to  its  bloom  ? 
What !  turn  from  the  eyes  in  their  brightness, 

And  worship  their  gloom? 
The  rose,  in  its  freshness  and  beauty, 

You  crushed,  in  your  earlier  years, — 
Will  you  cherish  it,  faded,  from  duty? 

I  answer  with  tears. 


SARAH  T.    WASON—MARY  M.  G.  EDDY.  755 


Mrs.  Wason  is  a  daughter  of  Captain  John  Lamson.  She  was  born  in  New  Bos 
ton,  and  educated  at  New  Ipswich  Academy.  In  1843  she  became  the  wife  of 
Abraham  Wasou,  a  wealthy  farmer,  residing  near  Joe  English  Hill.  Mrs.  Wason's 
poetical  taste  has  been  inspired  by  the  bold  and  delightful  scenery  amid  which  she 
has  lived,  by  the  broad  acres  her  husband  has  tilled,  and  by  the  flowers  cultivated 
with  her  own  care.  Her  occasional  poems  have  been  received  with  much  commen 
dation.  In  1880  a  small  volume  of  her  poetry  was  published. 


ALMOST  HOME. 

I  am  almost  home  !  I  am  near  the  shore 

Where  the  spirit  shall  rest  when  its  dreams  are  o'er ; 

And  waves  of  unrest  and  sorrow  and  sin 

Of  this  lower  world  may  not  enter  in. 

As  I  linger  here,  o'er  memon''s  sea 
Fond  recollections  come  floating  to  me  ; — 
The  nearest  loves  that  on  earth  are  given 
More  beautiful  seem,  when  matured  in  heaven. 

I  am  almost  home  !  Oh,  I  long  to  be 

Where  the  soul,  unfettered,  and  evermore  free, 

Ma}'  catch  glad  notes  of  the  seraphim's  song 

That  are  echoed  through  heaven  by  the  angelic  throng. 

I  am  nearing  home,  and  the  eye  of  faith 
Looks  calmly  over  the  river  of  death  ; — 
The  radiant  gleam  that  comes  from  above 
Is  the  sunshine  of  God's  unchangeable  love. 


Jftorse  Clober 


Mrs.  Eddy  was  born  in  Sanbornton,  July  16,  1821.  Of  late  she  has  resided  in 
Boston,  and  has  preached  regularly  on  Sundays  at  the  Hawthorne  Rooms.  She  is 
author  of  an  able  metaphysical  treatise,  entitled,  "Science  and  Health."  She  mar 
ried  firstly,  G.  W.  Glover;  secondly,  D.  Patterson;  and  thirdly,  G.  Eddy.  She-  has 
one  son,  Geo.  W.  Glover. 


OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Gigantic  size,  unfallen  still  that  crest ! 
Primeval  dweller  where  the  wild  winds  rest ! 
Beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  e'er  to  tell 
What  power  sustains  thee  in  thy  rock-bound  cell. 

Or  if,  when  erst  creation  vast  began, 

And  loud  the  universal  fiat  ran, 

"Let  there  be  light!" — from  chaos  dark  set  free, 

Ye  rose,  u  monument  of  Deity. 


756  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Proud  from  yon  cloud-crowned  height  thou  peerest  forth 
On  insignificance,  that  peoples  earth  ; 
Recalling  oft  the  bitter  drug  which  turns 
The  mind  to  meditate  on  what  it  learns. 

Stern,  passionless,  no  soul  those  looks  betray, 
Though  kindred  rocks,  to  sport  at  mortal  clay — 
Like  to  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor's  art, 
"Play  round  the  head,  but  come  not  to  the  heart." 

Ah,  who  can  fathom  thee  !     Ambitious  man, 
Like  a  trained  falcon  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Guided  and  led,  can  never  reach  to  thee 
With  e'en  the  strength  of  weakness,  vanity. 

Great  as  thou  art,  and  paralleled  by  none, 
Admired  by  all,  still  art  thou  drear  and  lone, 
The  moon  looks  down  on  thine  exiled  height ; 
The  stars,  so  mildly,  spiritually  bright, 

On  wings  of  morning  gladly  flit  away, 
To  mix  with  their  more  genial,  might}*  ray  ; 
The  white  waves  gently  kiss  the  murmuring  rill ; 
But  thy  deep  silence  is  unbroken  still. 


Etiia  &.  Stoa^e    ©tear. 


Mrs.  Obear  was  born  in  Laconia  in  1820.  Without  assistance  she  acquiivd  an  ed 
ucation  which  enabled  her  to  teach  schools  succes»fully  for  ten  years.  She  became 
the  wife  of  Mr.  L.  H.  Obear  of  New  Ipswich. 


WELCOME  TO  AN  INFANT  GRANDDAUGHTER. 

Welcome,  welcome,  young  immortal ! 
Standing  at  life's  opening  portal, 

All  earth's  pathway  yet  untrod  ! 
Wintry  skies  are  bending  o'er  thee, 
Snow-bound  all  the  way  before  thee. 
Dreary  seems  the  road  ? 

Shrink  not,  fear  not,  little  stranger ; 
One  who  shieldeth  mid  all  danger 

Holds  thee  safely  in  his  hand  ; 
Sheltering  arms  He's  thrown  around  thee, 
With  a  mother's  love  has  crowned  thee, 

In  this  stranger  land  ! 

Heavenl}'  blessings  without  number 
Wait  thee,  baby  !  softly  slumber 
Till  thou  hast  thy  needed  rest. 


NANCY  D.  CURTIS.          .  757 

Then,  pursue  thy  journey  onward 

Blithely,  as  the  lark  flies  sunward, 

Toward  the  city  of  the  blest  I 


HYMN. 

For  the  Boxborough  Centennial  Celebration,  1883. 

Our  helper,  God  !  we  bless  thy  name 

For  tokens  of  thy  gracious  care, 
In  every  season  still  the  same, 

In  ever}'  need,  and  everywhere. 

We  lift  to  thee  our  songs  of  praise, 
From  the  green  hills  our  fathers  trod, 

For  all  the  love  that  crowns  our  days, 
Rejoicing  in  our  fathers'  God. 

We  bless  thee  for  the  sturd}'  arms 
That  laid  the  trackless  forests  low, 

And  planted  homes  and  fields  and  farms, 
For  us, — a  hundred  years  ago. 

We  praise  thee  for  the  memories  sweet 

That  cluster  round  these  hearths  and  homes, 

And  draw  the  willing  wanderer's  feet 
To  native  hills,  where'er  he  roams. 

These  scenes,  with  sacred  memories  fraught, 
Inspire  our  hearts  with  grateful  laj's  ! 

For  all  our  fathers  bore  and  wrought 

Their  children's  children  give  Thee  praise  ! 


Kanct)  JB.  (Eurtte. 


Mrs.  Nancy  D.  Curtis  was  born  in  Beverly,  Mass.  Her  maiden  name  was  Elling. 
wood.  Having  lost  her  parents  in  early  childhood  she  went  to  Boston,  Mass,  to  live. 
Rev.  J.  W.  Ellingwood  of  Bath,  Maine,  was  her  father's  brother.  After  her  mar 
riage  with  Mr.  Samuel  Curtis  of  Boston,  they  removed  to  Concord,  N.  H.,  where 
her  husband  died,  and  where  she  still  resides. 


MUSIC  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  breath  of  music  o'er  my  spirit  stealing, 
Up  from  the  valley  to  my  couch  of  rest, 

Comes  like  the  "harp  of  David,"  touched  with  feeling, 
To  soothe  the  moaning,  of  my  weary  breast, 

Waking  sweet  memories,  long  buried  deep, 
Of  loving  voices,  hushed  in  death's  long  sleep 

Forevermore. 


7f>8  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Up  from  the  valley,  where  the  moon  is  sleeping, 
It  softly  floats  upon  the  midnight  breeze, 

And,  rising  higher,  sends  a  joyous  greeting 

To  song-bird  hushed,  within  the  grand  old  trees. 

Then  in  low  murmurs  gently  sinks  to  rest, 

Like  angel  voices  whispering  from  the  blest, 

Forevermore. 

Up  through  my  casement  comes  its  plaintive  wailing. 

In  low  sweet  tones,  like  those  who,  doomed  to  part, 
Yet  strive,  with  tenderness  and  love  unfailing, 

To  soothe  the  anguish  of  each  other's  heart. 
I  hold  my  breath  to  hear,  for  in  that  soothing  tone 
Come  voices  of  the  past,  that  echo  back  my  own 

Forevermore. 

Oh  !  many  spirits  their  lone  vigils  keeping, 

Toiling  all  day,  and  watching  through  the  night, 

Turn  from  life's  burden,  with  its  cares  and  weeping, 
To  bless  the  hallowed  tones  that  bring  delight. 

Giving  a  foretaste  of  that  melod}-  on  high, 

Where  voices  join  in  harmony  that  cannot  die, 

Forevermore. 


Andrew  MoFarland,  M.  D.,  LL.D.,  was  born  In  Concord,  July,  1817.  He  is  a  son 
of  Rev.  Asa  MeFarland,  D.  D.,  who  was  many  years  pastor  of"  the  old  First  Con 
gregational  Church  in  Concord,  and  a  brother  of  the  late  Dea.  Asa  McFarland,  the 
well  known  printer  and  editor  of  Concord.  His  academical  education  was  princi 
pally  obtained  at  Oilman  ton  Academy.  He  received  his  professional  cducuiinn 
under  the  instruction  of  Dixl  Crosby,  M.  D.,  Professor  of  Surgery  in  the  Medical 
Department  of  Dartmouth  College.  He  practised  medicine  at  SanborntOB  1838—  '44  : 
at  Laconia  1844 — '45;  was  appointed  superintendent  of  the  N.  H.  Asvluni  for  the 
Insane,  Julv,  1845;  resigned  in  1852.  He  then  visited  asylums  for  the  insane  in 
Europe,  and  published,  on  his  return,  a  volume  of  letters,'  issued  by  B.  1'..  Mn--e\ 
ol'  Boston,  (now  out  of  print.)  In  April,  18.">4  he  was  appointed  superintendent  <>!' 
the  Illinois  State  Hospital  for  the  Insane,  at  Jacksonville,  111.  In  1858  he  became 
president  of  the  Illinois  State  Medical  Society,  and  in  18<iO— '61— '6-2  and  '63  was  pres 
ident  of  "Association  of  Superintendents  of  American  Instit minus  lor  I  lie  Insane.'' 
The  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  was  conferred  on  him  by  Illinois  College  in  l^ii. 
In  1870  lie  resigned  State  service  and  founded,  at  Jacksonville,  an  institution  known 
as  "Me  Farland  Retreat  for  the  Insane"  now  receiving  a  wide  patronage  MMIII  the 
states  and  territories  of  the  West. 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

I  had  a  mother ;  peaceful  is  her  rest ; 
Of  all  her  kind  the  purest,  loveliest,  best. 
How  m3r  full  heart  with  rapt  emotion  swells 
As  her  loved  form  in  memory's  picture  dwells, 
While  to  her  skies  my  thoughts  transported  seem, 
And  the  verse  kindles  at  so  blest  a  theme. 


ANDREW  MCFABLAND.  759 

Hers  was  the  gift  sublime  all  powers  to  move 
By  the  persuasives  of  the  tenderest  love  ; 
With  sweetest  arts  alone  to  inspire  a  fear, 
Chide  with  a  sigh  and  chasten  with  a  tear ; 
For  no  reproof  in  lasting  power  could  vie 
With  the  remonstrance  of  her  gentle  eye, 
And  erring  ones  the  wayward  path  forsook, 
Awed  to  repentance  by  her  saddened  look. 

The  way  she  trod  seemed  strewn  with  heavenly  light ; 
Her  shining  step  made  duty's  pathway  bright, 
Lighted  the  goal  she  pointed  us  to  win, 
Blinded  the  sight  to  avenues  of  sin, 
Till  such  a  lustre  gilt  the  upward  way, 
No  eye  could  miss — no  footstep  go  astray. 

While  of  her  life  each  moment  had  its  sum 
Of  present  good  or  seed  of  good  to  come, 
There  was  an  hour  more  sacred  than  the  rest, 
When  Sabbath's  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
When  holy  quiet  reigned,  her  j'ounger  three 
With  wonted  rule  were  gathered  at  her  knee. 
Then  each,  in  turn,  the  allotted  lesson  said, 
And,  verse  by  verse,  the  scripture  task  was  read, 
Mingled  with  comment  apt  and  gems  of  lore, 
Culled,  as  we  passed,  from  her  exhaustless  store. 

When  all  was  ended,  from  her  hallowed  chair 
Rose,  low  and  sweet,  the  accents  of  her  prayer ; 
Impassioned  faith  and  love  inspired  her  tongue, 
Like  Israel  to  the  given  pledge  she  clung, 
Implored  for  each  of  the  encircling  band 
The  needed  succor  of  the  Father's  hand. 
For  each  some  wished-for  grace  she  fervent  craved, 
That  each  from  tempter's  wile  might  e'er  be  saved, 
That  all,  how  wide  their  earthly  lot  be  cast, 
Might  meet  around  the  eternal'throne  at  last. 

As  the  lawgiver's  face  with  glory  shone, 
Fresh  from  the  presence  of  the  Holy  One, 
So,  when  she  turned  to  us,  her  features  glowed, 
As  one  who,  face  to  face,  had  seen  her  God. 
And  while  her  heart  with  love  maternal  burned, 
And  while  her  lip  with  bless'd  communion  warmed, 
Each  child  in  turn  was  folded  to  her  breast, 
And  on  each  brow  a  loving  kiss  was  pressed. 


760  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

That  holy  kiss,  so  warmly  given, 
Was  owned  and  registered  in  heaven  ; 
Mid  chance  and  change  I  feel  it  stand, 
Fixed  by  the  eternal  Graver's  hand, 
And  know  its  sense  will  long  outwear 
The  glow  of  pleasure  and  the  falling  tear. 

Since  then,  of  earth  I've  had  my  ample  fill ; — 
Much  of  its  good  and  something  of  its  ill ; 
All  that  to  men  its  varying  fortunes  bring — 
Friendship's  warm  breath  and  wrong's  envenomed  sting- 
Yet  still  the  memory  of  that  kiss  remains, 
Tempering  all  joys  and  solacing  all  pains. 
And  when  life's  checkered  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
Should  on  my  vision  dawn  that  brighter  shore, 
All  sorrows  past — all  pains  endured — 
Earth's-  woes  behind  and  bliss  assured, 
All  doubt  removed — all  sin  forgiven — 
I'll  whisper  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
"My  patent  of  admission  here 
Was  purchased  with  a  mother's  prayer !" 


iUonartr 

The  following  song,  which  was  immensely  popular  for  many  years  after  its  pub 
lication,  was  composed  and  set  to  music  by  Leonard  Heath  of  Nashua,  about  1842. 
He  was  a  fine  singer  and  his  concerts  in  which  this  song  was  feelingly  rendered 
gave  him  a  great  reputation.  It  is  thought  by  many  to  be  the  most  touching  and 
eloquent  verse  that  any  New  Hampshire  author  has  produced.  Mr.  Heath'*  death 
occurred  a  few  years  ago. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  BONAPARTE. 

On  a  lone  barren  isle,  where  the  wild  roaring  billows 

Assail  the  stern  rock,  and  the  loud  tempests  rave, 
The  hero  lies  still,  while  the  clew-drooping  willows, 

Like  fond  weeping  mourners,  lean  over  his  grave. 
The  lightnings  may  flash  and  the  loud  thunders  rattle  ; 

He  heeds  not,  he  hears  not,  he's  free  from  all  pain  ; 
He  sleeps  his  last  sleep — he  has  fought  his  last  battle ! 

No  sound  can  awake  him  to  glory  again  ! 

O  shade  of  the  mighty,  where  now  are  the  legions 

That  rushed  but  to  conquer  when  thou  led'st  them  on  ? 
Alas  they  have  perished  in  far  hilly  regions, 

And  all  save  the  fame  of  their  triumph  is  gone ! 
The  trumpet  may  sound,  and  the  loud  cannon  rattle ! 

The}'  heed  not,  they  hear  not,  they're  free  from  all  pain  ; 
They  sleep  their  last  sleep,  they  have  fought  their  last  battle  ! 

No  sound  can  awake  them  to  glory  again  ! 


MAS T  LITTLE  ROGERS.  76 1 

Yet,  spirit  immortal,  the  tomb  cannot  bind  thee, 

For,  like  thine  own  eagle  that  soared  to  the  sun, 
Thou  springest  from  bondage,  and  leavest  behind  thee 

A  name  which  before  thee  no  mortal  had  won. 
Though  nations  may  combat,  and  war's  thunders  rattle, 

No  more  on  the  steed  wilt  thou  sweep  o'er  the  plain  ; 
Thou  sleep'st  thy  last  sleep,  thou  hast  fought  thy  last  battle  ! 

No  sound  can  awake  thee  to  glory  again. 


Etttle 

Miss  Rogers,  a  daughter  of  Richard  F.  and  Susan  Rogers,  was  a  poet  of  Warner. 
She  was  born  in  Xewburyport,  Mass.,  January,  1811,  and  her  death  occurred  in 
Warner,  August,  1865.  Her  poems  are  mostly  on  religious  subjects  and  many  were 
printed  in  the  Christian  Watchman.  She  was  always  frail  and  her  opportunities 
tor  education  and  social  culture  were  limited;  but  she  made  the  most  of  her  life, 
enjoyed  keenly  all  the  aspects  of  nature,  and  had  genuine  pleasure  in  writing;  and 
above  all  in  intercourse  with  Christian  friends,  being  herself  much  esteemed  for  her 
many  excellencies  of  character. 


MARK  VII.  32-37. 

If  once  on  earth,  the  pitj'ing  Saviour  spake 
Only  "Ephphatha !"  and  mute  lips  were  free, 

And  sealed  ears  heard,  at  once,  all  nature  wake 
To  strange  and  half-bewildering  melody, 

How  gloriously  the  final  trump  will  roll 

Its  welcome  peal,  when  all  the  dead  shall  hear, 

And  the  deer/ rise,  forever  more  made  whole, 
To  praise  that  Saviour,  with  the  lip  and  ear. 

O  will  the}r  all  ?  Does  each  adore  Him  now  ? 

Saviour !  speak  first  the  heart's  deep  sins  forgiven, 
And,  first  in  gratitude,  the  mute  will  bow, 

To  sing,  indeed,  "new  songs"  to  Thee  in  heaven  !" 


'ALL  THY  WORKS  SHALL  PRAISE  THEE,  O  LORI) 

Psalm  cxlv.  10. 

They  tell  me  of  the  far  Pacific  Isles, 

A  bright,  perpetual  verdure,  with  the  round 

Of  sunny  seasons  bearing.     Where  the  smile 

Of  fruit  and  flower  forever  on  the  face 

Of  fragrant  earth  reposeth.     Where  the  trees 

Like  lordly  monarchs  tower,  and  the  broad  leaves 


762  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

O'ershadow  families.     Where  most  that  man, 

"With  temperance  and  humility  content, 

Needeth  for  life's  enjo3'ment,  springeth  up 

Spontaneously  profuse.     Where,  pictured  forth 

In  living  pencillings,  the  landscape  glows 

With  gorgeous  tropic  splendor,  that  the  sun 

Gildeth  as  for  a  temple,  and  the  moon 

Investeth  with  the  poetry  of  rich 

And  eloquent  beauty,  for  the  watcher's  soul ; 

Rough  hill  and  cascade,  and  the  bordering  vale, 

With  the  tamed  mountain  waters,  threading  through 

Their  whispering  channels  to  the  dashing  sea, 

Canoe  and  cottage,  full  of  indolent  life, 

Lulled  by  magnificent  birds,  that  never  trust 

Their  brilliant  songs  upon  a  frosty  air, — 

These  all  are  beautiful,  and,  best  of  all, 

The  moral  loveliness  that  holy  truth   , 

Js  shedding  on  those  fair,  luxuriant  shores. 

The  sky  of  Italy,  the  graceful  vine, 

Hanging  delicious  garlands  on  the  brow 

Of  southern  Europe's  beauty — England,  rich 

In  cultured  loveliness,  the  ''Verdant  Isle" 

So  sweet  and  harmless  to  her  partial  sons — 

The  wild  attractions  of  the  Highland  lore — 

Evergreen  forests  of  the  hoary  north — 

Old  Asia,  full  of  Oriental  fame — 

Africa,  "robbed  and  spoiled,"  }'et  eloquent  still, — 

These  may  all  have  their  song — but  is  its  tone 

More  sweetly  musical  than  the  voice  of  home? 

Home  hath  uncounted  melodies.     They  come 

With  thrush  and  robin,  and  the  garrulous  wren, 

And  the  mellifluous  sparrow,  poising  high 

On  the  old  beacon  pine  that  overlooks 

These  ragged  hemlocks,  partners  of  its  age, 

The  last  green  relics  of  forgotten  years. 

Deep  in  their  leafy  castles,  3'ear  by  year, 

The  families  of  musicians  have  been  reared 

That  hold  their  natural  concerts,  when  the  breeze 

Sweeps  o'er  the  waters,  through  the  rustling  halls, 

And  freely  bears  the  tremulous  notes  away. 

How  quietly  that  cool  river  laves  the  broad 

And  fruitful  border  on  its  farther  shore  ! 

And  back,  far  back,  the  wood}-  highlands  rear 

Their  perilous  steeps  against  the  blue  of  heaven. 

The  deep  monotony  of  distant  fall, 

And  nearer,  gentle  rapid,  blent  with  sounds 


WILLIAM  D:  LOCKE.  763 

Of  bus}-  thrift,  is  life's  kind  lullaby. 

I  look  far  downward  to  the  eddying  waves, 

Through  curtains  of  young  verdure,  where  the  beech, 

Willow  and  silvery  poplar,  and  the  oak, 

And  tasselled  birch,  the  jewelry  of  spring, 

The  maple  and  the  wreathed  and  stately  elm 

And  spicy  cherry  wave  their  shad}-  folds 

Above  the  rippling  diamonds  of  the  stream. 

The  dense  and  wavy  green  of  summer  flings 

Appropriate  beaut}-,  redolent  Avith  hope, 

The  hope  of  harvest,  o'er  the  fitful  face 

Of  these  rough,  breezy  hills.     And  hard}7  flowers 

Commit  their  fragrant  breath  to  these  clear  winds, 

And  laugh  on  morning's  fresh  and  healthy  brow. 


&£ttUtam  29.  Hocfce. 


Mr.  Locke  was  born  in  Fitzwllliam,  October  5,  1807.  With  the  exception  of 
teaching  in  common  schools,  some  fifteen  winter  terms,  his  occupation  has  been 
upon  the  farm  in  the  busy  work  of  supporting  and  training  to  maturity  seven 
children  of  his  own,  and  giving  a  home  for  longer  or  shorter  periods  (one  twenty- 
one  years)  to  eight  or  nine  other  children.  He  resides  in  New  Ipswich. 


CENTENNIAL  YEAR— 1875. 

All  garner'd  now  the  ample  store, 

The  generous  yield  of  fruitful  sheaves, 

And  Autumn's  sunny  days  are  o'er, 
The  farewell  days  of  brilliant  leaves  ! 

The  merry  rills  that  toss'd  with  glee 
Their  foaming  ripples  all  the  way, 

With  frost  congealed,  no  longer  free 
Are  silent  all  the  wintry  day  ! 

December's  hours  decline  to  stay, 

And  close  the  year  the  months  began, — 

Thus  "Seventy-five"  will  glide  away, 
While  "Seventy-six"  will  lead  the  van. 

So  past  the  weighty,  fearful  years, 

Grand  years  that  made  our  nation  free,— 

A  nation  born  in  blood  and  tears 
Has  earn'd  a  noble  right  to  be. 

Now  wave  in  strength  its  pennons  fair, 
In  peerless  grandeur  round  the  world, 

Proclaiming  far  that  freemen  dare 
Defend  the  right  with  flags  unfurled  ! 


764  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

A  century  new  the  land  awaits — 

Far  reaching  fame  the  years  may  thrill, 

Blest  visions  fair  glad  hope  creates, 
A  programme  bold,  a  work  done  well ! 

I  seem  to  hear  a  loft}'  tread, 

The  on-rush  of  an  earnest  throng. 

That  o'er  our  boundless  "free  soil"  spread 
And  waft  the  nation's  life  along ! 

Now,  farewell  to  the  closing  years, 
That  found  an  era  so  sublime  ! 

All  hail  the  dawn  that  bright  appears, 
The  morn-light  of  this  future  time  ! 


RESPONSE 

To  a  poem  by  Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney  entitled,  "Rural  Industry." 

All  hail  to  thy  harp  of  musical  power 
That  sings  to  cheer  on  the  toil-loving  mower, 
The  sinews  of  labor  inspired  by  its  strain, 
Shall  swing  the  keen  scythe  nor  ever  complain  ! 

Sing  on — 'twill  lighten  the  weight  of  his  toil, 
A  sunbeam  of  pleasure  as  he  coaxes  the  soil, 
Erewhile  the  sharp  sickle  shall  gather  the  grain, 
The  fruit-laden  sheaves  from  hill-side  and  plain  ! 

"Work,  farmers  work  !"  yes  cheerily  sow  ! 

And  we'll  stir  the  rough  mould  with  the  conquering  plough, 

And  the  music  of  spades  and  hoes  will  we  send, 

As  an  echo  responsive  to  the  call  thou  hast  penned. 


Samuel  jjB. 


This  venerable  poet  was  born  in  Portsmouth  about  the  year  1806.    lie  re.si<lr>  i:i 
Strafl'ord. 


TO 


Were  I  to  twine  a  beauteous  wreath 
Tli}'  tranquil  brow  to  bind, 

I  would  not  take  from  Flora's  hand 
Her  flowers  of  choicest  kind. 

I  would  not  seek  for  pearls,  or  gold, 
Or  diamonds  bright  and  rare  ; 

I'd  cull  from  virtue's  garden  rich, 
Adornments  far  more  fair. 


LTDIA  M.  HALL.  765 


I'd  make  a  crown  of  modest}', 
And  deck  it  o'er  with  truth  ; 

With  cheerfulness  I'd  have  it  shine, 
Like  buoyant  hopes  of  }'outh. 

Sincerity,  and  friendship  true, 
And  kindness  should  be  there  ; 

And,  more  than  all,  thy  brow  the  gem 
Of  piety  should  wear. 


GOD  AND  OUR  NEIGHBOR. 

Although  our  duties  are  in  number  great, 

Of  vast  proportions  and  of  wondrous  weight ; 

Yet  all,  when  rightly  seen  and  understood, 

Tend  toward  ourselves,  our  neighbor  and  our  God. 

Our  neighbor,  who?     Our  duty  to  him,  what? 
In  palace  dwells  he,  or  in  humble  cot? 
Where'er  he  dwells,  'tis  he,  we  must  confess, 
Whom  we  can  aid :  our  duty  is  to  bless. 


IB. 


Mrs.  Hall,  a  sister  of  S.  M.  De  Meritt,  was  born  in  Portsmouth.  She  died  March 
15,  1880,  at  the  age  of  77  years.  A  short  time  before  her  death  she  wrote  the  fol 
lowing  poem. 


LINES. 

I  am  almost  over  the  shore  of  time, 
Almost  to  the  edge  of  the  river  ; 
The  boatman  is  waiting  to  take  me  o'er 
To  the  sweet  and  beautiful  flowery  shore 
Where  peace  will  reign  forever. 

Lord,  help  me  to  meet  my  end  in  peace 

When  thou  shalt  call  me  to  come  ; 
And  may  all  vain  hopes  forever  cease, 
My  love  and  faith  each  day  increase, 
While  I  am  going  home. 

The  river  is  cold  and  the  waves  run  high, 
Be  with  me,  dear  Lord,  till  I've  cross'd 
Where  are  sweet  flowers  and  living  green, 
That  the  eyes  of  mortals  have  never  yet  seen, 
And  sorrow  and  pain  will  be  lost. 


7C6  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


iElbtra  a.  CfMfcscm. 

n  in  Henniker,  July  11, 1813.    Whe 

and  was  a  great  sufferer  the  remaii 

pain  she  wrote  prose  and  poetry,  L f 

under  the  instruction  of  her  brother.  She  bore  her  affliction  with  patience  ami 
Christian  fortitude.  She  died  in  her  native  town,  November  22, 18C8. 


Miss  Gibson  was  born  in  Henniker,  July  11, 1813.  When  about  twenty  years  .>f 
age  s(ie  was  taken  sick,  and  was  a  great  sufferer  the  remainder  of  her  life.  "During 
her  hours  of  rest  from  pain  she  wrote  prose  and  poetry,  ami  practised  the  violin 


A  DREAM. 

1  dreamed  that  friendship  was  a  heavenly  flower.  But  still,  it  deigned  now  and 
then  to  scatter  its  seeds  on  the  earth,  cheering  poor  mortals  with  its  rare  1'r.i- 
grance. 

'Twas  a  charming  flower,  in  a  lovely  bower, 

Oh,  how  surpassing  fair ! 
I  looked  again,  for  I  feared  that  pain 

AVould  crush  its  petals  rare. 

Another  look  in  heaven's  pure  book, 

An  angel  seemed  to  read  ; 
That  flowers  would  trail,  mid  sunshine  and  gale, 

From  friendship's  purest  seed. 

She  strewed  the  seed,  'twas  a  lovely  deed  ; 

The  choicest  fell  to  you  ; 
Their  blossoms  are  bright  in  woe's  dark  night ; 

I  woke  and  found  it  true. 


Ration  fftcans 

Mrs.  Sullivan,  a  daughter  of  Timothy  Dix,  was  born  in  Boscawen,  April  17, 1802. 
She  became  the  wife  of  John  W.  Sullivan,  and  their  residence  was  in  Brookline, 
Mass.  >he  died  in  1800.  During  her  early  married  life  she  wrote  for  the  press, 
particularly  for  Mrs.  Kale's  Magazine.  Her  genius  for  music  led  her  to  the  publish 
ing  of  two  volumes  of  music:  the  "Juniata  Ballads,"  and  the  "Bible  Songs." 


THE  FIELD  OF  MONTEREY. 

The  sweet  church  bells  are  pealing  out 

A  chorus  wild  and  free, 
And  every  thing's  rejoicing 

For  the  glorious  victory  ; 
But  bitter  tears  are  gushing 

For  the  gallant  and  the  gay, 
Who  now  in  death  are  sleeping, 

On  the  field  of  Monterey. 

When  spring  was  here  with  opening  flowers, 

And  I  a  proud  Ma}-  queen, 
And  all  the  young  and  gay  were  met 

To  dunce  upon  the  green  ; 


MAE  Y  ANN  S ULLIVAN.  76 7 

The  noblest  and  the  manliest 

Was  by  my  side  that  day, 
Who  now  in  death  is  sleeping 

On  the  field  of  Monterey. 

The  flowers  of  spring  are  faded  now, 

The  woods  are  sear  and  cold, 
And  persimmon's  cheek  is  flushing 

And  the  papaw  shines  in  gold. 
But  he  in  earliest  manhood 

Has  sadly  passed  away, 
And  now  in  death  is  sleeping 

On  the  field  of  Monterey. 

The  bugles  swell  their  wildest  notes 

And  loud  the  cannons  roar, 
And  madly  peal  the  sweet  church'  bells 

For  holy  rest  no  more  ; 
But  lonely  hearts  are  bleeding 

Upon  this  glorious  day, 
For  the  loved  in  death  are  sleeping 

On  the  field  of  Monterey. 


THE  BLUE  JUNIATA. 

Wild  roved  an  Indian  girl,  Bold  is  my  warrior  good, 

Bright  Alfarata,  The  love  of  Alfarata, 

Where  sweep  the  waters  Proud  waves  his  snowy  plume 

Of  the  blue  Juniata.  Along  the  Juniata. 

Swift  as  an  antelope,  Soft  and  low  he  speaks  to  me, 

Through  the  forest  goingr  And  then  his  war  cry  sounding, 

Loose  were  her  jetty  locks  Rings  his  voice  in  thunder  loud 

In  wavy  tresses  flowing.  From  height  to  height  resound 

ing. 

Gay  was  the  mountain  song  So  sang  the  Indian  girl, 

Of  bright  Alfarata,  Bright  Alfarata, 

Where  sweep  the  waters  Where  sweep  the  waters 

Of  the  blue  Juniata.  Of  the  blue  Jnniata. 

Strong  and  true  my  arrows  are  Fleeting  years  have  borne  away 

In  my  painted  quiver,  The  voice  of  Alfarata, 

Swift  goes  my  light  canoe  Still  sweeps  the  river  on, 

Adown  the  rapid  river.  Blue  Juniata. 


guUtban. 


Sirs.  Sullivan  was  a  native  of  this  state.  Her  poem  here  produced  is  copied  from 
the  New  Hampshire  Book.  The  storm  spoken  of  in  the  third  stanza  occurred  in 
September,  1815.  Further  information  in  regard  to  this  writer  the  compiler  has 
been  unable  to  gain. 


70S  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  ELM. 

If  ever  you  visit  my  dear  native  town, 

Will  you  seek  out  the  vale  where  the  mill-stream  conies  down, 

Even  the  villagers'  children  will  point  you  the  road, 

And  the  very  old  house  where  my  grandsire  abode. 

But  the  pride  of  the  vale  which  I  wish  you  to  see, 
Is  1113-  grandmother's  elm,  the  old  mammoth  tree  ; 
How  widely  its  graceful  and  spherical  crown 
Flings  over  the  valley  a  shadow  of  brown. 

When  the  fierce  south-easter  was  raging  by, 
Filling  with  clamor  the  gentle  blue  sk}', 
Then  a  lofty  branch  like  a  forest  oak, 
From  the  noble  old  tree  by  its  fury  was  broke. 

Oft  my  grandmother  told  us,  as  pondering  we  stood, 
How,  three-score  years  since,  from  the  neighboring  wood 
She  carried  that  elm  in  her  little  right  hand, 
And  her  father  planted  it  firm  in  the  land. 

Her  grave  is  grown  smooth  on  the  green  hill-side, 
But  the  elm  lives  still  in  its  towering  pride, 
And  the  spring's  gayest  birds  have  a  colony  there, 
And  they  gladden  with  carols  the  mid-summer  air. 

And  gay  as  the  wild-bird's  melody 
Are  the  sports  I  have  led  beneath  that  tree  ; 
The  old  elm  tree  — oh,  would  it  were  mine 
In  the  shade  of  that  tree  even  now  to  recline. 


JHarg  fSi.  Culber. 


Mrs.  Culver,  formerly  Miss  Mary  M.  Patterson,  was  born  in  Henniker,  May  '-!(!. 
1802.  In  her  childhood  and  early  youth  she  had  l'e\v  advantages  for  education,  the 
only  school  to  which  she  had  access,  being  two  miles  distant,  and  the  school  a 
large  crowded  public  one,  where  little  attention  was  given  to  younger  pupils. 
Having  an  intense  love  of  study,  she  managed,  by  improving  every  opportunity  of 
acquiring  knowledge,  to  become  qualified  for  teaching  at  the  age  of  18  years,  "sin- 
followed  this  occupation  with  very  little  intermission  for  4!»  years,  teaching  in 
this  state,  Vermont,  and  New  York.  While  teaching  in  New  \ork,  she  wau  piv- 
sented  by  the  authorities  of  the  state,  with  a  state  license,  giving  her  permis.-ion 
to  teach  in  any  part  of  the  state  without  further  question.  She  was  one  of  Hirer 
female  teachers  in  the  whole  state  who  obtained  the  license.  Soon  after  her  mar 
riage,  mr.  Culver  became  a  confirmed  invalid.  Sh«  resides  in  Vassur,  Michigan. 


LINES, 

Written  on  returning  from  a  visit  to  Riverside  Cemetery. 

'Tis  hallowed  ground,  this  tangled  screen, 
These  groves  of  pine,  so  darkly  green, 
The  quiet  water's  glancing  sheen, 


JOHN  ADAMS  DIX.  760 

The  silent  graves,  whei'e  lying  low 
Are  friends  still  loved,  though  now  unseen, 
Lost  long  ago. 

'Tis  hallowed  ground,  where  loved  ones  rest, 
Whose  lips  in  life  our  own  have  pressed, 
Whose  worth  and  virtues  doubly  blest 
Endure  for  aye,  through  fleeting  years, 
Unchangable  in  our  own  breast, 

Embalmed  in  tears. 

'Tis  hallowed  ground,  for  love  can  trace, 
Despite  the  gloomy  resting  place, 
The  well  remembered  form  and  face, 
As  fair  as  when  in  life  they  shone, 
We  see  no  change,  in  death's  embrace, — 

No  change  is  known. 

'Tis  hallowed  ground,  this  sylvan  scene, 
Where  on  that  autumn  day  serene 
We  roved  amid  the  foliage  green, 
And  heard  the  Cass  in  music  low 
Chime  sweetly  through  the  dark  ravine, 
Far,  far  below. 

This  lovely  glen  will  still  remain, 
Here  falls  the  silent  summer  rain, 
The  fields  still  wave  with  golden  grain, 

The  streams  still  flow  ; 
When  friends  shall  look  for  us  in  vain, 

We're  lying  low. 


Joiju  Etiams 


John  A.  Dix  was  born  in  Bopeawen,  July,  1798  He  was  educated  at  Salisbury 
and  Exeter  academies.  In  1811  his  father  sent  him  to  Montreal  where  he  studied 
the  French  language.  Subsequently  he  continued  his  studies  under  private  tutors 
in  Boston,  Mass.  He  served  in  the  American  army  during  the  war  of  1812,  holding 
several  commissions.  On  returning  to  private  life  he  studied  law  and  was  admit 
ted  to  the  bar  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  settled  in  Cooperstown,  N.  Y.,  in  the  prac 
tice  of  his  profession.  In  1831  he  was  appointed  adjutant-general  of  the  state  and 
removed  to  Albany,  N.  Y.,  and  in  1833  he  was  appointed  secretary  of  state.  He 
visited  Europe  in  "1842.  In  1845  he  was  chosen  U.  S.  senator.  In  1853  he  was  ap 
pointed  assistant  treasurer  in  the  city  of  New  York.  In  I860  he  was  appointed 
postmaster  of  that  city.  In  1861  he  was  appointed  major  general  of  U.  S.  volunteers, 
and  after  superintending  the  raising  of  eleven  regiments  in  New  York  he  was  as 
signed  to  the  command  of  the  department  embracing  the  gtates  of  Pennsylvania, 
Delaware  and  Maryland,  and  established  his  head-quarters  at  Baltimore.  He  was 
a  prominent  officer"  throughout  the  war.  After  the  surrender  of  Gen.  Lee  to  Gen. 
Grant,  Gen.  Dix  resigned  his  commission  and  returned  to  private  life.  In  1866  he 
was  appointed  minister  to  France,  returning  home  in  1S69.  His  last  public  service 
was  as  governor  of  the  state  of  New  York.  Throughout  an  official  career  of  near 
ly  half  a  century  he  devoted  all  his  leisure  moments  to  literary  pursuits. 
His  translation  of  the  famous  Latin  hymn,  Dies  I  raj,  was  made  at  Fortress  Mon 
roe,  Va.,  in  1803.  He  died  in  New  York  city,  April  21, 1879. 


770  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

DIES  TRIE. 

Da}'  of  vengeance,  lo  !  that  morning 
On  the  earth  in  ashes  dawning, 
David  with  the  Sibyl  warning. 

Ah  !  what  terror  is  impending, 
When  the  Judge  is  seen  descending, 
And  each  secret  veil  is  rending. 

To  the  throne,  the  trumpet  sounding, 
Through  the  sepulchres  resounding, 
Summons  all,  with  voice  astounding. 

Death  and  Nature  mazed  are  quaking, 
When,  the  grave's  deep  slumber  breaking, 
Man  to  judgment  is  awaking. 

Now  the  written  book  containing 
Record  to  all  time  pertaining 
Opens  for  the  world's,  arraigning. 

See  the  Judge  his  seat  attaining, 
Darkest  mysteries  explaining, 
Nothing  unavenged  remaining. 


What  shall  I  then  say,  unfriended, 
By  what  advocate  attended, 
When  the  just  are  scarce  defended  ? 

King  of  majesty  tremendous, 
By  thy  saving  grace  defend  us  ; 
Fount  of  pity,  safety  send  us  ! 

Jesus,  think  of  thy  wayfaring, 

For  my  sins  the  death-crown  wearing ; 

Save  me,  in  that  day,  despairing. 

Worn  and  weary  thou  hast  sought  me, 
By  thy  cross  and  passion  bought  me  ; 
Spare  the  hope  thy  labors  brought  me. 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 
Give,  O  give  me  absolution 
Ere  that  day  of  dissolution. 

As  a  guilty  culprit  groaning, 
Flushed  my  face,  my  errors  owning, 
Spare,  O  God,  thy  suppliant  moaning. 


NATHANIEL  GHEENE.  771 

Thou  to  Mary  gav'st  remission, 
Heard'st  the  dying  thief's  petition, 
Bad'st  me  hope  in  my  contrition. 

In  my  prayers  no  worth  discerning, 
Yet  on  me  thy  favor  turning, 
Save  me  from  that  endless  burning ! 

Give  me,  when  thy  sheep  confiding 
Thou  art  from  the  goats  dividing, 
On  thy  right  a  place  abiding. 

When  the  wicked  are  rejected, 
And  to  bitter  flames  subjected, 
Call  me  forth  with  thine  elected ! 

Low  in  supplication  bending, 

Heart  as  though  with  ashes  blending ; 

Care  for  me  when  all  is  ending. 

When  on  that  dread  daj-  of  weeping 
Guilty  man  in  ashes  sleeping 
Wakes  to  his  adjudication, 
Save  him,  God  !  from  condemnation  ! 


Natijantel 


Nathaniel  Green  was  born  in  Boscawen,  May  20, 1797.  At  the  age  of  ten  he  went 
to  Hopkinton  and  became  a  clerk  in  a  store.  In  1809  he  went  to  Concord  and  of 
fered  himself  to  Isaac  Hill  to  learn  the  printing  business  in  the  office  of  the  JV.  H. 
Patriot.  In  1812  he  left  Mr.  Hill's  employ  and  became  connected  with  the  Concord 
Gazette.  In  1814  he  went  to  Portsmouth,  was  there  employed  on  the  AT.  H.  War 
Journal.  The  next  year  he  went  to  Haverhill,  Mass.,  and  worked  upon  the  Haver- 
hill  Gazette.  In  1817,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  lie  started  the  Essex  Patriot.  In  1821 
he  went  to  Boston  and  started  the  Boston  Statesman.  In  1829  he  was  appointed 
postmaster  of  Boston  and  occupied  that  position  till  Gen.  Harrison  became  Presi 
dent,  and  was  again  appointed  to  the  same  office  by  President  Tyler,  and  he  held 
it  till  1849.  He  was  a  self-made  man  and  well  acquainted  with  the  French,  Italian 
and  German  languages.  Mr.  Greene  had  a  fine  poetic  fancy.  His  poems  often  ap 
peared  over  the  signature  of  "Boscawen."  He  visited  Paris  in  1852.  While  there 
lie  received  intelligence  of  the  death  of  a  beloved  daughter,  who  died  at  Panama, 
while  on  her  way  to  San  Francisco. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  IN  HEAVEN. 

I  had  on  earth  but  only  thee  ; 
Thy  love  was  all  the  world  to  me  ; 
And  thou  hast  sought  the  sitent  shore 
Where  I  had  thought  to  go  before  ! 

Away  from  thee,  in  sad  exile, 
My  lips  had  long  unlearned  to  smile  ; 
Bright  wit  might  flash,  red  wine  might  pour, 
But  I,  alas  !  could  smile  no  more. 


772  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy  death,  in  these  my  fading  years, 
Hath  sealed  and  seared  the  fount  of  tears  ; 
My  heart  may  bleed  at  every  pore, 
But  I,  alas  !  can  weep  no  more. 

Ah  !  how  thy  loss  my  soul  doth  rend, 
My  only  daughter,  sister,  friend  ! 
Of  thee  bereft,  all  joy  is  o'er, 
And  I,  on  earth,  can  hope  no  more. 

But  in  those  realms  bej-ond  the  sun, 
In  that  bright  heaven  thy  faith  hath  won, 
AVhere  thou  and  kindred  spirits  reign, 
There  haply  shall  we  meet  again. 


PETRARCH  AND  LAURA. 

Oh  !  deem  not  Petrarch  all  unblest, 

In  that  he  Laura  never  knew  ; 
That  no  fond  word  his  ear  caressed, 

In  fair  return  for  love  so  true ; 
That  no  response  he  ever  heard 

To  lays  in  which  his  love  was  told 
In  sweeter  strains  than  love's  own  bird 

In  grove  or  forest  ever  trolled. 

Though  Laura  might  disdain  to  hear 

The  music  from  his  heart-strings  wrung, 
Those  strains  now  reach  the  listening  ear 

In  every  land  and  every  tongue. 
Though  made  the  subject  of  her  scorn, 

From  which  in  life  he  suffered  long, 
There's  man}*  a  maiden,  then  unborn, 

Who  since  hath  loved  him  for  his  song. 

Not  unrewarded  nor  nnblest 

The  sorrows  he  in  song  deplored  ; 
His  sonnets  oft  relieved  the  breast 

From  which  the  strains  divine  were  poured. 
They  won  for  him  undying  fame, 

Which  brightens  with  the  lapse  of  time, 
And  eternized  fair  Laura's  name, 

Embalmed  in  choice  Italian  rhyme. 


ALEXANDER  HILL  EVERETT— MARY  CLARK.        773 

ISbmtt. 

A.  H.  Everett,  an  elder  brother  of  Edward  Everett,  was  a  native  of  Dorchester, 
Mass.  After  graduation  at  Harvard  College,  in  1806,  he  became  a  teacher  in  Phil 
lips  Academy  at  Exeter.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  John  Quiucy  Adami,  in 
Boston,  and  went  with  Mr.  Adams  to  Russia,  where  he  remained  two  vears.  Mr. 
Everett  was  author  of  several  volumes,  mostlv  on  political  economy.  He  occupied 
many  important  positions  both  at  home  and  abroad.  In  1846  and  1846  he  published 
two  volumes  of  "Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays  with  Poems."  He  died  at 
Canton,  China,  June  28, 1847. 


THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN. 

Scion  of  a  mighty  stock !  Thither  turn  the  steady  eye 

Hands  of  iron,  hearts  of  oak,  Flashing  with  a  purpose  high! 

Follow  with  unflinching  tread  Thither  with  devotion  meet, 

Where  the  noble  fathers  led  !  Often  turn  the  pilgrim  feet ! 

Craft  and  subtle  treachery,         Let  the  noble  motto  be, 
Gallant  youth  !  are  not  for  thee  :  God,— the  Country, — Libert}' ! 
Follow  thou  in  word  and  deeds  Planted  on  Religion's  rock, 
Where  the  God  within  thee  leads  IThou  shalt  stand  in  every  shock. 

Honesty  with  steady  eye,  Laugh  at  danger  far  and  near ! 

Truth  and  pure  simplicity,          Spurn  at  baseness,  spurn  at  fear  ! 
Love  that  gently  winneth  hearts,  Still,  with  persevering  might, 
These  shall  be  thy  only  arts.       Speak  the  truth  and  do  the  right ! 

Prudent  in  the  council  train,      So  shall  peace,  a  charming  guest, 
Dauntless  on  the  battle  plain,    Dove-like  in  thy  bosom  rest, 
Ready  at  the  country's  need       So  shall  honor's  steady  blaze 
For  her  glorious  cause  to  bleed.  Beam  upon  thy  closing  days. 

Where  the  dews  of  night  distil  Happy  if  celestial  favor 
Upon  Vernon's  holy  hill ;  Smile  upon  the  high  endeavor ; 

Where  above  it  gleaming  far      Happy  if  it  be  thy  call 
Freedom  lights  her  guiding  star  :In  the  holy  cause  to  fall. 


OUarfc. 

Mary  Clark  was  a  daughter  of  Daniel  Clark  of  Concord.  She  died  in  1841  at  the 
age  of  49  years.  She  was  a  lady  of  uncommon  gifts  and  acquirements,  of  a  social 
disposition,  simple  in  her  manners,  kind  to  the  poor,  ever  sympathizing  with  the 
afflicted  and  suffering  of  all  classes.  When  Gen.  Lafayette  visited  Concord  in  1824, 
on  passing  the  house  of  Daniel  Clark,  Miss  Clark  stepped  out  of  the  door  and  pre 
sented  to  him  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  with  the  following  lines,  for  which  he  thanked 
her. 


TO  LAFAYETTE. 

Welcome,  welcome,  Lafayette, 
Thee  we  never  can  forget, 
Our  country's  and  Washington's  friend, 


774  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


the  spirits  above, 
In  the  regions  of  love 
Thus  greet  thee,  when  life's  journey  shall  end. 


Frederick  Knight  was  born  in  Hampton,  October  9,  1701.  His  brother,  Henry 
Cogswell  Knight,  was  more  distinguished  than  he  as  a  poet  but  was  never  a  resident 
of  this  state.  Frederick  shared  with  him  the  influences  of  the  refined  rural  home 
in  Bowler,  Mass.,  and  acquired  a  taste  for  the  poetical  beauties  of  nature,  which 
became  the  solace  of  his  disappointed  career.  He  studied  for  a  while  at  Har 
vard  College,  but  did  wot  concentrate  his  attention  sufficiently  to  pursue  anv  settled 
plan  of  life.  He  was  afterwards  a  student  at  the  law  school  in  Litchflelcl,  Conn. 
Subsequently  he  taught  school  for  a  while.  His  tastes  and  habits  of  retirement, 
however,  constantly  brought  him  back  to  the  country-seat  at  Rowley.  He  wa>  at 
one  time  employed  by  an  uncle,  a  merchant  at  the  Canary  Islands,  but  a  passion 
for  the  beauties  of  the  spot  prevailed  over  the  demands  of  business  and  he  failed 
in  the  objects  of  his  journey.  And  again  he  returned  to  his  beloved  Rowley.  There, 
in  a  frugal  mode  of  living, "he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days.  He  diell  at  Row- 
ly,  November  20, 1849. 


FAITH. 

Have  faith,  and  thou  shalt  know  its  use  ; 

Have  faith,  and  tbou  wilt  feel 
'Tis  this  that  fills  the  widow's  cruse, 

And  multiplies  her  meal. 

Have  faith,  and,  breaking  from  thy  bound, 

With  eagles  thou  shalt  rise, 
And  find  ihy  cottage  on  the  ground 

A  castle  in  the  skies. 

Have  faith,  and  thou  shalt  hear  the  tread 

Of  horses  in  the  air, 
And  see  the  chariot  overhead 

That's  waiting  for  thee  there. 

Have  faith,  the  earth  will  bloom  beneath, 

The  sea  divide  before  thee, 
The  air  with  odors  round  thee  breathe, 

And  heaven  wide  open  o'er  thee. 

Have  faith,  that  purifies  the  heart, 

And  with  thy  flag  unfurled, 
Go  forth  without  a  spear  or  dart ; 

Thou'lt  overcome  the  world. 

Have  faith,  be  ever  on  thy  wa}*, 
Arise  and  trim  thy  light, 


FEE DE RICK  KNIGHT.  775 

And  shine,  if  not  the  orb  of  daj', 
Yet  as  a  star  of  night. 

Have  faith,  though  threading  lone  and  far 

Through  Pontine's  deepest  swamp, 
When  night  has  neither  rnoon  nor  star 

Thou'lt  need  no  staff  nor  lamp. 

Have  faith,  go  roam  with  savage  men, 

And  sleep  with  beasts  of  prey  ; 
Go  sit  with  lions  in  their  den, 

And  with  the  leopards  play. 

Have  faith,  on  ocean's  heaving  breast 

Securely  thou  ma}-'st  tread, 
And  make  the  billow}'  mountain's  crest 

Thy  cradle  and  thy  bed. 

Have  faith,  around  let  thunders  roar, 

Let  earth  beneath  thee  rend, 
The  lightnings  plaj-,  the  deluge  pour, 

Thy  pass- word  is — a  friend. 

Have  faith,  in  famine's  sorest  need, 

When  naked  lie  the  fields, 
Go  forth  and  weeping  sow  the  seed, 

Then  reap  the  sheaves  it  yields. 

Have  faith,  in  earth's  most  troubled  scene, 

In  time's  most  tiying  hour 
Thy  breast  and  brow  shall  be  serene, 

So  soothing  is  its  power. 

Have  faith,  and  say  to  yonder  tree, 

And  mountain  where  it  stands, 
Be  ye  both  buried  in  the  sea — 

They  sink  beneath  its  sands  ! 

Have  faith,  upon  the  battle-field, 

AVhen  facing  foe  to  foe, 
The  shaft,  rebounding  from  thy  shield, 

Shall  lay  the  archer  low. 

Have  faith,  the  finest  thing  that  flies 

On  wings  of  golden  ore, 
That  shines  and  melts  along  the  skies, 

Was  but  a  worm  before. 


776  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


tUigijt 


Mrs.  Moody  came  to  Boscawen  with  her  husband,  Caleb  Knight,  in  1792,  from 
Newbury,  Mass.  Their  home  was  in  a  secluded  locality  west  of  Little  Hill  In 
Boscawen.  She  was  a  school  teacher,  at  that  time  an  uncommon  thing  for  a  female. 
Three  of  her  poems  are  printed  in  Coffin's  History  of  Boscawen  and  Webster. 


MY  COTTAGE. 

In  this  retreat,  remote  and  still, 

My  favorite  solitude  I  find  ; 
This  little  cot  beneath  the  hill 

Has  charms  congenial  to  my  mind. 

How  gracious,  heaven,  art  then  to  me, 
In  answering  thus  my  earh"  prayers  ; 

From  youth  I  ever  wished  to  be 

Far  from  the  world  and  all  its  cares. 

Far  from  the  world  of  noise  and  strife, 
With  quiet  here  I'll  pass  my  days ; 

In  this  sequestered  vale  of  life 

I've  found  that  peace  that  ne'er  decays. 

And  from  this  humble  shade  ere  long, 
To  heaven,  my  home,  I  hope  to  rise, 

Borne  on  the  balnry  wings  of  love 
To  fairer  mansions  in  the  skies. 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

Your  friend  has  requested  a  letter  for  you, 

But  at  present  I  know  not  what  theme  to  pursue, 

Unless  of  my  dwelling  I  give  you  a  view. 

I'm  of  the  earth,  earthly ;  and  therefore  my  mind 

To  things  of  small  moment  is  mostly  inclined. 

My  time  and  my  thoughts  are  emplo3*ed  in  my  dairy, 

Though  sometimes  I  scribble  when  of  that  I'm  weary. 

My  writing,  you'll  notice,  is  none  of  the  best, 

Though  perhaps  not  so  coarse  as  my  genius  and  taste. 

But  enough  of  this  preface  :     I  now  will  proceed 

To  draw  3*ou  a  landscape  if  you  it  can  read. 

In  this  lonely  vale,  half  a  mile  from  the  road, 

Shut  out  from  the  world,  is  my  rural  abode. 

A  mile  to  the  west  3-011  ma3*  houses  discern  ; 

But  here  quite  alone  stand  nry  cottage  and  barn. 

And  around  it  are  sporting  the  flocks  and  the  herds, 


COBNELIUS  STUETEVANT.  777 

The  turkey's  and  chickens,  the  squirrels  and  birds. 

And  here  is  my  garden,  but  we'll  pass  and  not  heed  it ; 

Like  my  heart,  'tis  uncultured — I've  neglected  to  weed  it. 

But  the  fields  and  the  orchards,  that  ask  not  my  care, 

Are  teeming  with  good  fruit,  and  look  very  fair. 

See  yonder  the  ridge  and  the  wood-covered  hill, 

And  down  in  the  hollow  there  ripples  a  rill ; 

In  pleasing  meanders  it  plays  through  the  wood, 

Till  it  meets  and  unites  in  a  neighboring  flood. 

The  wide-spreading  meadow,  the  sweet- flowing  fountain, 

The  tall,  dusky  forest,  the  high  wooded  mountain, 

The  steep,  craggy  rock,  and  the  grove  and  the  brook, — 

The  prospect  is  pleasant  wherever  you  look. 

On  all  sides  are  blooming  the  beauties  of  spring ; 

Clad  with  corn  and  with  clover,  the  vales  shout  and  ring ; 

The  sweet-scented  briers  that  deck  this  green  bed, 

The  soft  fragrant  zephyrs  that  play  round  my  head, 

The  sweet  little  songsters  that  carol  above, — 

All,  all  I  have  named  are  the  offspring  of  love  ! 


Cornelius  j$turtebant 


Mr.  Sturtevant  was  an  old  time  printer  and  publisher  of  Keene.  Mr.  George  H. 
Sturtevant  of  Boston,  but  formerly  of  Concord,  is  his  grandson.  Mr.  Sturtevant 
was  a  versatile  writer.  The  sonnet  here  produced  was  published  in  the  Cambridge 
Gazette  in  the  summer  of  1804. 


SONNET. 

On  the  Death  of  General  Alexander  Hamilton. 

On   worth  entomb'd,  and  honor's  hallow'd  bier, 
Let  those  who  prize  them  drop  the  sacred  tear. 
Columbians,  mourn  your  peerless  Chieftain  dead, 
And  let  immortal  laurels  deck  his  bed. 
Untimely  death,  by  fate's  mysterious  hand, 
Hath  cut  off  virtue  from  our  weeping  land  ; 
Despoil'd  its  fairest  flower ;  perfection  mourns — 
Her  noblest  model  to  the  dust  returns. 
The  scholar's  pattern  and  the  soldier's  guide ; 
.The  sage  civilian  and  the  statesman's  pride ; — 
Friend  to  the  worthy,  to  the  base  a  rod  ; 
"An  honest  man — the  noblest  work  of  God." 
Columbia's  genius  mourns  her  fav'rite  son, 
The  friend  of  man,  the  matchless  Hamilton. 


778  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


Samuel 


Dea.  Samuel  P.  Bailey  was  born  In  South  Weare,  February  27,  1780.  lie  came  to 
Washington  in  1802;  constructed  buildings,  and  commenced  house-keeping,  having 
been  married  the  same  year.  In  1818  he  became  a  worthy  member  of  the  Masonic 
Order,  and  was  made  Secretary  of  "Mount  Vernon  Lodge,  No.  15,"  in  which  capa 
city  he  served  for  28  consecutive  vears.  On  the  llth  of  July,  1879,  the  members  of 
M.'V.  Lodge  came  to  his  house,  which  he  built  and  in  which  he  had  lived  77  years, 
and  held  a  lodge  meeting  with  him,  he  acting  as  Chaplain  pro  tempore,  and  closing 
the  records  as  Secretary  pro  tempore.  On  the  27th  of  February,  1880,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Free  Masons,  his  100th  birthday  was  very  successfully  celebrated 
at  the  town  hall  in  Washington,  Mr.  Bailey  being  present  and  able  to  participate 
in  the  ceremonies.  During  the  thirteen  last  years  of  his  life  he  composed  and 
wrote  about  2000  poetical  Acrostics  on  different'persons'  names  which  are  scattered 
into  more  than  one-half  of  the  states  in  the  Union.  He  died  on  the  12th  day  of 
July,  1880,  being  100  years,  4  months  and  15  days  old.  His  last  words  were  a  cor 
rect  and  audible  repetition  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  expiring  immediately  after  with 
out  a  struggle. 


MY  PILGRIMAGE. 

When  I  get  through  my  pilgrimage, 

And  leaA'e  all  things  below, 
I  hope  to  find  my  friends  again 

Who  did  before  me  go  ; 

And  join  with  them,  all  clothed  in  white, 
To  shout  and  sing  God's  praise  ; 

And  there  remain  in  mansions  bright 
In  never  ending  days. 

Now  I  am  old  and  feeble  too, 

But  God  still  helps  me  live 
To  read  and  write,  and  some  good  do 

By  counsel  I  should  give. 

Now  I  have  seen  one  hundred  .years, 
Four  months  and  three  da}*s  more, 

And  soon  shall  leave  all  doubts  and  fears, 
And  Jesus  Christ  adore. 


Daniel 


The  following  poem,  by  Daniel  Webster,  has  been  forwarded  to  the  compiler  by 
Hon.  Henry  P.  Rolfe,  of  Concord.  Soon  after  Mr.  Webster  delivered  his  most  elo 
quent  and  pathetic  oration  upon  the  live*  and  services  of  John  Adams  and  Thomas 
Jefferson,  a  lady  brought  him  her  album,  and  requested  him  to  write  his  name  di 
rectly  beneath  Mr.  Adams'  name.  On  the  same  page,  beneath  the  trembling  sig 
nature  of  the  venerable  Ex-President,  Mr.  Webster  wrote  these  lines.  [See  page  26.] 


ANONYMOUS.  779 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

Dear  lady,  I  a  little  fear 

'Tis  dangerous  to  be  writing  here. 

His  hand,  who  bade  our  eagle  fly, 

Trust  his  young  wings  and  mount  the  sky, 

Who  bade  across  the  Atlantic  tide, 

New  thunders  sweep,  new  navies  ride, 

Has  traced  in  lines  of  trembling  age 

His  autograph  upon  this  page. 

Higher  than  that  eagle  soars, 

Wider  than  that  thunder  roars, 

His  fame  shall  through  the  world  be  sounding, 

And  o'er  the  waves  of  time  be  bounding. 

If  thousands,  as  obscure  as  I, 

Cling  to  his  skirts,  he  still  will  fly 

And  leap  to  immortality  ; 

If  by  his  name  I  write  my  own, 

He'll  take  me  where  I  am  not  known  ; 

His  cold  salute  will  meet  my  ear : 

"Pray,  stranger,  how  did  you  come  here?" 


Slnongmous. 


The  following  poem  was  composed  by  one  of  three  Indians  who  were  educated 
many  years  ago  at  Dartmouth  College,  and  was  sung  by  them  at  their  departure 
while  standing  around  a  "youthful  pine"  then  growing  northeasterly  of  Dartmouth 
Hall.  They  ha_d  built  near  this  pine  a  wigwam  which  they  named  their  "Bower." 
In  Bryant's  "Library  of  Poetry  and  Song"  there  is  a  poem  said  to  be  "anonymous" 
which  was  undoubtedly  garbled  from  this  old  Indian  song.  In  that  later  poem 
every  thing  which  gives  significance  to  the  original  is  left  out. 


WHEN  SHALL  WE  THREE  MEET  AGAIN. 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
Oft  shall  glowing  hopes  expire, 
Oft  shall  wearied  love  retire, 
Oft  shall  death  and  sorrow  reign 
Ere  we  three  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  a  burning  sky, 
Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls, 
And  in  fancy's  wide  domain 
Oft  shall  we  three  meet  again. 


780  POETS  OF  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

When  these  burnished  locks  are  gre}-, 
Thinn'd  b}-  many  a  toil-spent  da}-, 
When  around  this  youthful  pine 
Moss  shall  creep  and  ivy  twine, 
Long  may  this  loved  bower  remain, 
Here  may  we  three  meet  again. 

When  the  dreams  of  life  aie  fled, 
When  its  wasted  lamps  are  dead, 
When  in  cold  oblivion's  shade 
Beauty,  wealth  and  fame  are  laid, 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign, 
There  may  we  three  meet  again. 


PAGE 

Adams,  Ezra  Eastman 176 

Adams,  Enoch  George 330 

Adams,  Ida  G 707 

Adams,  James  Meade 735 

Adams,  James  Osgood 235 

Adams,  John  Greenleaf 144 

Adams,  John  Wesley 456 

Adams,  Letitia  M 680 

Adams,  Lucy  P 235 

Adee,  David  Graham 557 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 538 

Andrews,  Anabel  C 666 

Anonymous 779 

Bachelder,  Eugene 260 

Bailey,  Albon  II 313 

Bailey,  Samuel  Philbrick 778 

Baker,  Horace  B 665 

Baldwin,  Samuel  C 225 

Baldwin,  Thomas 10 

Ballou,  Hosea 21 

Barker,  James  W 305 

Barnes,  Esther  Walden 147 

Barnes,  Susan  Rebecca  Ayer.  113 

Bartlett,  William  A 716 

Barton,  Hubbard  Alonzo  ....  745 

Bean,  Helen  Mar 603 

Beck,  Michael  Wentworth  ...  196 
Belknap,  George  Eugene  ....  427 

Belknap,  Jeremy 2 

Bellows,  John  Adams 659 

Bennett,  Adelaide  G 658 

Blair,.  Mary  E 280 

Blanchard,  Amos 100 

Blood,  Henry  Aines 559 

Bolles,  Clara  E 673 

Boodey,  Mary  Helen 647 

Boyle,  Sarah  Roberts 356 

Boylston,  Edward  D 179 

Breman,  James 119 

Brett,  Mary  E.  Ferguson  ....  368 
Brewster,  Charles  Warren . . .  105 


PAGE 

Bnstol,  Augusta  Cooper 490 

Browne,  Addison  Francis 654 

Browne,  George  Waldo 696 

Browne,  Lewis  C 133 

Bryant,  George  Nelson 291 

Bryant,  James  Churchill 164 

Bulfinch,  Stephen  Greenleaf.  125 

Burke,  Edmund 124 

Burnham,  Samuel 446 

Burroughs,  Charles 34 


Camp,  Lydia  Frances 643 

Carlton,  Frank  Henry 668 

Carr,  Laura  Garland 497 

Carrigan,  Philip 22 

Carter,  Nathan  Franklin 397 

Carter,  Nathaniel  Hazeltine . .  31 

Case,  Luella  J.  B 212 

Caverly,  Robert  Boodey 109 

Champney,  George  Mather  . .  161 

Chapin,  Bela 377 

Chellis,  Lora  Ella 678 

Clarke,  James  Freeman 139 

Clark,  Leander 197 

Clark,  Mary 773 

Coan,  Leander  S 567 

Cochrane,  Clark  B 626 

Cochrane,  Helen  A.  F 596 

Cochrane,  Warren  Robert  . . .  526 

Coit,  Charles  Wheeler 728 

Colcord,  Edward  John 667 

Colgate,  Susan  F 395 

Converse,  Sarah  S 370 

Couch,  Ira  Harris 751 

Crosby,  Thomas  Russell 218 

Cross,  Lucy  Rogers  Hill 481 

Crowell,  Baron  Samuel 636 

Culver,  Mary  M 768 

Currier,  Moody 115 

Curtis,  Nancy  D 757 

Cutts,  Mary 101 


782 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Dana,  Charles  Anderson 241 

Dana,  Francis 7-14 

Daniels,  Eunice  Kiniball 120 

De  Merritt,  Samuel  M 764 

De  Wolfe,  Annie  E 737 

De  Wolfe,  Geo.  Gordon  Byron  489 

Dinsmoor,  Kobert 10 

Dix,  John  Adams 769 

Dodge,  George  Dudley 541 

Dodge,  Jacob  Kichards 268 

Donelery,  Harriet  Newell 207 

Dorr,  George  S 688 

Drown,  Daniel  Augustus  ....  263 

Eaton,  Harriet  Newell 334 

Eddy,  Mary  Morse  Glover . . .  755 

Ellsworth,  Mary  W 424 

Everett,  Alexander  Hill 773 

Everett,  David 16 

Everett,  Frank  O 633 

Farmer,  John 44 

Fernald,  Woodbury  Melcher.  172 

Fessenden,  Thomas  Green...  17 

Fields,  Jarnes  Thomas 226 

Fish,  Elisha  Snell 45 

Fletcher,  Josiah  Moody 342 

Foster,  Fannie  E 284 

Foster,  Sarah  H 473 

Foss,  Deborah  G 248 

Foss,  Samuel  Walter 722 

Fox,  Charles  James 159 

Fox,  William  Copp 337 

Francis,  Mary  Gibson 754 

French,  Benjamin  Brown 93 

French,  Etta  Udora 731 

French,  Francis  Ormond 553 

French,  Harriette  Van  Mater  236 

Fuller,  Homer  Taylor 572 

Gerould,  Cynthia  L 107 

Gibson,  Elvira  A 766 

Goodale,  Celestia  S 365 

Gorrill,  Miranda  M 592 

Greeley,  Horace 150 

Greene,  Isabel  C (MM) 

Greene,  Nathaniel 771 

Griffith,  George  Bancroft. ...  609 

Hale,  Horatio 221 

Hale,  Sarah  Josepha 60 

Hale,  William 707 

Hall,  Lydia  M 765 

Hammond,  Geo.  Washington  103 


PAGE 

Harvey,  Matthew 184 

Hatch,  Mary  R.  P <;w 

Haven,  Nathaniel  Appleton. .  49 

Haven,  Samuel 1 

Hay  ward,  Emily  Graham 574 

Hay  ward,  Silvanus 362 

Hazeltine,  Hannah  Bryant . . .  302 

Httzeltine,  Miron  James ...   .  299 

Heath,  Clara  B 580 

Heath,  Leonard 760 

Heath,  Simeon  P 250 

Herrick,  Henry  W 2S9 

Heywood,  Martha  J 451 

Hibbard,  Harry 214 

Hildreth.  Samuel  Tenney 231 

Hill,  David  IT 45!» 

Hinsdale,  Grace  Webster..  ••  430 

Hobbs,  Mary  Elizabeth 615 

Holbrook,  Annie  B 600 

Hood,  Joseph  Edward 320 

Hosmer,  Edward  A 307 

Hosmer,  Mary  B 203 

Hunt,  Bessie  Bisbee 675 


Jenks,  Edward  Augustus... 
Jenness,  Caroline  Elizabeth. 
Jones,  Mattie  Frances 


Keeler,  Samuel  Crof ut 

Kennard,  James 

Kenerson,  Rhoda  II.  E  •  •  • . . 

Kent,  George 

Kent,  George  Frederick  — 

Kent,  Henry  Oakes 

Kiniball,  Harriet  McEwen., 

Kimball,  Kate  J 

Knight,  Frederick 


Laighton,  Albert 

Laighton,  Benjamin  D 

Laighton,  Oscar 

Lane,  Mary  Blake 

Lane,  Sarah  Elizabeth 

Leahy,  Thomas  Francis 

Little,  Alfred 

Liverinore,  Sarah  White 

Locke,  William  D 

Lord,  Charles  Chase 

Lund,  Mary  Dwinell  Chellis. 

Mackintire,  Clara  Fellows... 

Marsh,  William  B 

Martin,  Elizabeth 


412 
294 
535 

352 

192 
389 
67 
2*1 
-470 
475 
705 
774 


372 
238 

524 
468 
701 
887 
7V* 
43 
763 
619 
366 

644 
175 
634 


INDEX. 


783 


PAGE 

Mason,  Ellen  McRoberts —  670 

McClintock,  Catherine  M 748 

McCrillis,  Abbie  Huntoon...  357 

McFarland,  Andrew 587 

Messer,  Melvin  J 686 

Miller,  Mary  E.  B 425 

Milliken,  Daniel  L 544 

Moody,  Phebe  Knight 776 

Moore,  Frederic  A 319 

Moore,  Hugh 121 

Moses,  John  Nelson 160 

Moses,  Thomas  P 120 

Moss,  Sylvia  A 661 

Nason,  Elias 155 

Norris,  Laura  A 422 

Nowell,  Edward  P 549 


Obear,  Lydia  A.  Swazey 756 

Ordronaux,  John 391 

Orne,  Caroline 142 

Osgood,  Carrie  White 718 

Osgood,  George  W 457 

Palmer,  Charlotte  M 537 

Parker,  Amos  Andrew 51 

Parker,  Caroline  E.  R 354 

Parker,  Sarah  M 532 

Parmelee,  Anne 723 

Parmelee,  Joseph  Warren 232 

Partridge,  Abbie  Nelsia 714 

Partridge,  Samuel  Hudson. . .  750 

Patterson,  George  Willis 730 

Patterson,  James  Willis 753 

Patterson,  Mary  Stearns 153 

Pay  son,  Auriu  M 351 

Peabody,  Ephraim 117 

Peabody,  Oliver  W.  Bourne. .     85 
Peabody,  William  B.  Oliver  .     88 

Perley,  May  E 743 

Perry,  Albert 245 

Perry,  Timothy 390 

Phelps,  Adaliza  Cutler 267 

Pickering,  Grace  E 682 

Pike,  Samuel  J 326 

Pillsbury,  Fred  Cutter 712 

Piper,  Martha  Alma 746 

Plumer,  William 36 

Plumer,  William 271 

Porter,  Sarah 14 

Pratt,  Mary  Raymond 154 

Proctor,  Edna  Dean 400 

Quackenbos,  George  Payn. ..  321 


PAGE 

Rand,  Edward  A 550 

Rand,  Edward  Dean 252 

Rankin,  Jeremiah  Earns 358 

Richardson,  Charles  Francis.  692 
Richardson,  WilliamMerchant    24 

Robinson,  Annie  Douglas 622 

Robinson,  Mary  M 484 

Rogers,  Mary  Little 761 

Runnels,  Fannie  Huntington.  738 

Russell,  Amos  B 309 

Russell,  James  G 635 

Russell,  Thomas  P 364 


Sargeant,  Edward  Erasmus . .  242 

Sargent,  Alfred  William 663 

Sargent,  Charles  Edward 708 

Senter,  Mary  A.  A 486 

Bewail,  Jonathan  Mitchel  .  - .       7 

Seymour,  Rhoda  Bartlett 662 

Shedd,  Sarah 210 

Shillaber,  Benj.  Penhallow..  166 

Sholes,  Althine  Florence 700 

Shores,  Eliza  O 72 

Silver,  Edna  Hastings 78 

Simes,  Louisa 148 

Smart,  Amanda  Jemima 419 

Smith,  Asa  Dodge 108 

Smith,  Joseph  Brown 261 

Smith,  Lotta  Blanche 727 

Smith,  Mattie  E 488 

Smith,  Sarah 81 

Spalding,  Caroline  Anastasia  436 

Spauldiug,  Mary  Wilkius 123 

Spencer,  Hiram  Ladd 382 

Stark,  Caleb 92 

Stark,  William 311 

Stickney,  Asenath  C 317 

Sturoc,  William  Cant 254 

Sturtevant,  Cornelius 777 

Sullivan,  Mary  Ann 767 

Sullivan,  Marion  Means 766 

Swain,  Leonard    246 


Talbot,  Henry  Laurens 640 

Thaxter,  Celia 518 

Tappan,  Daniel  Dana 75 

Tappan,  William  Bingham. . .  64 

Thayer,  Stephen  H 585 

Thornton,  Eliza  B 72 

Tilton,  Lydia  H 576 

Trevitt,  Lulu  E 741 

Tullock,  Lida  C 703 


784 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Upham,  Charles  W 183 

Upham,  Nathaniel  Gookin ...     99 
Upham,  Thomas  Cogswell.  ••     81 


Varney,  John  Eiley 


239 


Wakefield,  Nancy  Priest 542 

Walker,  Horace  Eaton 699 

Walker,  James  P ..  747 

Walker,  Justin  E 315 

Wallace,  Andrew 29 

Ward,  Milton 126 

Warland,  John  H 128 

Wason,  Sarah  Theresa 755 

Webster,  Daniel 26  and  778 

Weeks,  Lavinia  Patterson 546 

Wells,  Anna  Maria 74 

Wheeler,  Mary  H 510 


PAGE 

Wlieler,  Charles  L 750 

Whipple,  Julia  Van  Ness    . . .  530 

Whitcher,  Mary 192 

Whitney,  Adeline  D.  T 296 

Whiton,  Caroline  E 747 

Wiggin,  Edith  E 684 

Wiggin,  Lucy  Bentley 683 

Wiggin,  S.  Adams 749 

Wilcox,  Carlos 53 

Woolson,  Abba  Goold 569 

Woolson,  Constance Fenimore  t'-'l 

Wood,  Emma  Chadbourne .  •  •  726 

Wood,  John  Bodwell 331 

Wood,  John  Quincy  Adams. .  272 

Wood,  Julia  A.  A.  1 278 

Wooddell,  Edward  Whitesicle  318 

Woodward,  Arvilla  Almira..  609 

Worthen,  Augusta  Harvey. . .  188 

Wright,  Nehemiah 288 


ERRATA. 

In  a  part  of  this  edition  the  following  errors  occur : 

Page  11,  line  16  from  bottom,  for  "you"  read  "yon." 

Page  80,  line  12,  for  "vigil's"  read  "vigils." 

Page  113,  read  "Susan  R.  A.  Barnes." 

Page  128,  line  13  from  bottom,  for  "thousands,"  read  "thousand." 

Page  136,  line  li,  for  "steam"  read  "stream." 

Page  154,  restore  title,  "Do  they  love  there  still,"  to  Mrs.  Prates  poem. 

Page  176,  in  line  2  of  sketch,  for  "under"  read  "and  under,"  and  strikeout  "and" 
In  line  3,  and  in  line  5,  for  "was"  read  "became." 

Page  177,  the  title  of  the  poem,  "I  move  into  the  light,"  should  be  quoted,  and 
this  line  should  be  inserted  beneath :  "Written  on  the  death  of  Rev.  Dr.  Wallace  of 
Philadelphia." 

Page  227,  the  space  below  line  19,  from  the  bottom,  should  be  above  the  line. 

Page  236,  read  "Harriette  Van  Mater  French,"  and  line  2  from  bottom  for  "hour" 
read  "bower." 

Page  238,  line  17  from  bottom,  for  "I  say  not  so,"  read  "O  say  not  so,"  and  line  4 
from  bottom,  for  "forests,"  read  "forests." 

Page  272,  line  10  from  bottom,  for  "words  words,"  read  "words  were." 

Page  318,  read  "Edward  Whiteside  Wooddell." 

Page  421,  line  2,  for  "twelve,"  read  "three." 

Page  464,  line  18,  for  "groves,"  read  "graves." 

Page  544,  line  2  of  sketch  for  "Hearth  and  Home,"  read  "Cottage  Hearth." 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


Chan in   - 
The  T~>oets  of 
NliC3       New 


PS 

SU3 
NUC3 


L  005  242  453  8 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  344  096    1 


